


QED

by hylian_reptile



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Eating Disorders, M/M, Mostly Canon Compliant, Other, Slow Burn, mood disorders, read with caution
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-04
Updated: 2018-10-09
Packaged: 2018-10-14 18:40:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 77
Words: 142,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10542276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hylian_reptile/pseuds/hylian_reptile
Summary: Simmons is thankful that men don’t have bulimia. Otherwise, it’d be really fucking difficult to explain why he never keeps his dinner down. (Updates every Tuesday.)





	1. PART 1: RED VS BASE

**Author's Note:**

> gets up on soapbox and takes out my megaphone and yells a disclaimer that you can skip if you really want to but you have to do it at your own risk:
> 
> (1) no numbers will be mentioned, which means no weight, BMI, or calorie counts, so don't worry about them. on the other hand, if portrayals of ED behaviors are going to fuck you up due to past ED history, i think you should click out of this window. please don't sabotage whatever peace you have. (2) this is only ONE portrayal of a disorder, which affects many different people in many different ways, is experienced in many different ways. the portrayal here is just one look at eating disorders. (3) as a general PSA, since we’re on the subject: if you’re worried about your own or a friend’s eating behaviors/attitudes regarding food and body image, consider this me looking you dead in the eyeballs through the internet: talk to someone. sort that shit out now before it goes rancid. but i suspect that you know this, or should know this, or knew this at one point, and that if you’ve made it all the way through this monolithic paragraph you don’t really need me to tell you again. (4) no character here shares my opinions on the situation, thank fucking god. they all have their own misconceptions about mental health, gender and gender roles, sexualities, relationships, et cetera, as is canon-typical of their characters as seen in the red vs blue show, and this extends to eating disorders, too. (5) if, for the odd reason, you’re here because you want to read ED literature that isn’t a smoking piece of bullshit, please enjoy this fanfic of a halo fanfic featuring orange guildenstern and maroon rosencrantz in a sci-fi war-story existential romantic comedy.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Oh, god, don’t tell him,” says Simmons. “You’ll never have anything with sugar in it in stock ever again.”

Private Richard “Dick” Simmons, male, twenty-seven, of the Red Army, is being transferred from his five-year station at Blood Gulch outpost to a new station at Rat’s Nest, alongside fellow private Dexter Grif, male, thirty-one, also of the Red Army. “Say your goodbyes, boys,” calls the CO from the shotgun seat.

The truck begins to pull away. The Red Base is shrinking in the distance. “I suppose we _were_ stationed here for five years,” says Simmons.

“Uh-huh,” says Grif.

“Leaving behind Blood Gulch. It’s a big moment.”

“Uh-huh,” says Grif.

Simmons has no idea where Sarge and Lopez are, and sort of wishes that he’d tried harder to convince Sarge to come with them. But Sarge is also a fucking team-killing maniac, and he’d rather take a bullet to the remaining fleshy bits of his body than admit missing anyone on his team, especially out loud to _Grif_. “Well,” says Simmons, holding himself straighter, “if you won’t say anything, then on our behalf, I’d like to say—”

“Suck it, you big ugly canyon,” says Grif. “Fuck this place up, down, and sideways. Good _riddance_.” Then he holds up both middle fingers and blows smoke out through his helmet vents.

Simmons shoves him hard in the side of the head. “Grif! What the hell! You’re giving my lungs cancer!”

“No, they’re in _my_ chest, they’re _mine_ , they say you break it you bought it and—”

“They were still mine! I grew them! With my own two hands in my own chest! With love and care! Organically!”

“Simmons, if I have to put up with _your_ nasty-ass acid reflux and jacked-up windpipe and nonexistent gag reflex, I will put whatever I goddamn want down your throat.”

The CO turns around to stare at them. “Put what down whose throat?”

Simmons sputters. Grif looks the CO dead in the visor.  “Sir,” says Grif, “I’d like to let you know that command shipped off our token homosexual to some other outpost, and I am hard at work filling in for him and his entendres, there’s a whole _quota_ to fill, and without it the—"

“Grif, shut the _fuck_ up, you’re making me look bad in front of our new commanding—”

“—the whole Red Team dynamic will not survive, the—”

“—we’ll never advance our military careers, promotion is—”

“—the _very strength_ of the Reds depends upon my ability to make as many references to dicks as humanly possi—”

 

* * *

 

 

And that’s how Grif gets promoted. 

Simmons will say again: Grif was complaining about Simmons’ esophagus being busted from years of purging (not that Grif knew that), then Grif’s shit sense of humor realizes Sarge is gone and rears its sarcastic head, and then Grif gets _promoted_.

Grif’s promotion, and their introduction to Rat’s Nest, goes like this:

“Here’s the dorm,” says the lieutenant, and points at the dorm. 

“Here’s the showers,” says the lieutenant, and points at the showers.

“Here’s the storage room,” says the lieutenant, and points to a rusted shack.

“Here’s the training grounds,” says the lieutenant, and points to half an abandoned road. There’s a dead rat lying in the middle.

“Here’s the—”

“Yeah, okay, cool,” says Grif. “Where’s the kitchen?”

“The dining halls are one corridor left of the west storage room—”

“No, dude,” says Grif, “I mean the actual _kitchen_. Where you guys keep the good stuff.” He waggles his eyebrows.

“We try to keep the weed off the premises,” says the lieutenant. Simmons chokes.

“No—wait, actually, _yes_. But I meant chips, cookies, the shit with the high fructose corn syrup, plastic sugar, the stuff of Americans—”

“Oh, god, don’t tell him,” says Simmons. “You’ll never have anything with sugar in it in stock ever again.”

“I’m an _emotional eater_ , we’re in the middle of a war—”

“You ate Oreos out of the trash! It’s disgusting!”

“I was stressed!”

“The kitchens,” says the lieutenant, “are restricted to those of rank Sergeant or higher—” He breaks off and listens to something on his helmet radio. “Alright, go put your things in your dorm. Dinner’s in twenty. Don’t be late or you won’t have a plate.”

“Sir, yes sir. Thank you for the warning, sir. I like the rhyme, sir,” says Simmons. By god, he swears he can make up for the nonsense Grif was up to in the car; he can and _will_ make these COs like him. The lieutenant doesn’t look at him twice.

“Whoa, buddy--I mean sir. Buddy sir,” says Grif, as the lieutenant turns to leave. “Only _Sergeants_ or higher?”

The lieutenant crosses his arms. “That’s indeed what I said, Private.”

“Well, okay,” says Grif. “Then can I get promoted?”

“No, you idiot,” says Simmons, “you can’t just ask for—”

“Sure,” says the lieutenant. He claps Grif on the back. “Your Sergeant didn’t come with you from Blood Gulch, you’re obviously hard at work filling in the role of token homosexual, and we gotta keep up our equal-opportunity quota. You’re in. Congrats, Staff Sergeant.”

“Holy shit,” says Grif.

“What?” says Simmons.

“ _Nice_ ,” says Grif.

“Wait, _wait_ ,” says Simmons, “if we’re filling in Sarge’s vacant spot, does that mean I can—”

“No, sorry, only one homosexual per cast allowed,” says the lieutenant, and walks away.

“What the _fuck_ ,” whispers Simmons.

“Nnnn _nice_ ,” says Grif.

Simmons gives him a poisonous look. “ _You_ ,” he says. “You mother _fucker_. You aren’t even actually _gay_.”

And Grif says, in the highest, most stereotypically RuPaul’s-drag-race voice he can manage: “Don’t talk to your superior officer like that, _dah-ling_."

Simmons lunges. Grif bolts. “Homophobia! Discrimination!” Grif hollers. “Prejudice against minorities!”


	2. Chalkboard Sulk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or like they’re doing one of those mildly-inconvenient imprisonments with the Blues and they’ll go back to Red Base in a day or two.

But, you know, Simmons is cool with Grif’s promotion. No, really. He’s the chillest, calmest guy in this army right now. Really. Truly. Absolutely.

He just needs some time to himself. To chill. To become _even more_ cool with it. Maybe splash some cold water on his face. Blow his nose. Apply a cool, damp towel to the redness of his eyes.

So when they’ve shoved all their belongings under their bunks and organized their bedsheets--or rather, Simmons organized his _and_ Grif’s bedsheets--he throws himself on the bed in full armor and groans. Oh, and he has to _share_ a room with Grif until Grif gets moved to the quarters with the other _Sergeants_ \--no, no no, Simmons is cool, Simmons is super cool.

“C’mon, dude, it’s food time,” says Grif.

“You go ahead,” says Simmons.

“Oh my god,” says Grif. “You’re sulking.”

“I’m not _sulking_.”

“You’re totally sulking. Like a teenaged girl,” says Grif. “As soon as I leave you’re gonna write in your princess-pink diary about how nobody understands, and it’s not a phase—”

Simmons throws a pillow at him. “No! Shut up! And it’s not _pink_ , it’s—”

“—wait, so you actually have a—”

“No! _Fuck_! Go away! You don’t understand!”

Grif is _cackling_ , the son of a bitch. “Wait until Donut hears about this,” he crows, and ducks the next pillow by fleeing out the door.

Now Simmons has to pick up his own damn pillows by himself, and sit on the bed by himself, and realize that Grif isn’t going to tell Donut anything, because Donut got shipped out to some-fucking-where, and Sarge is back at Blood Gulch with Lopez, and it’s just Grif and Simmons here in this base they don’t know. Even though it feels like they’ve gone on a vacation, or something. Or like they’re doing one of those mildly-inconvenient imprisonments with the Blues and they’ll go back to Red Base in a day or two. They’re not going back to Blood Gulch ever again, actually.

Good riddance to that shithole, honestly. Grif is right--which Simmons will never admit but, y’know, Simmons can let Grif be right about the approximate degree of shittiness of Blood Gulch Outpost One, if only because Simmons hated Blood Gulch Outpost One just as much _first_.

A canyon where nothing happened, nobody died--except that Church guy, Simmons supposes--a canyon where Simmons knew all the routines, what to expect, knew every corner of the base, knew everyone in the base, knew everyone in _both_ bases to boot, knew every inch of the canyon, every view and angle of the alien sun-star, right down to the canyon mountains, where everyone knew everyone even when they pretended not to, where everyone was a piece of shit to each other _all the time_ …

Simmons throws his pillows back on the bed and cleans off the dirt marks. Thinks again: Grif was right. No sane person would want to stay at Blood Gulch.

Unfamiliar voices troop past the door. Something falls and clatters against the metal floor. It grates at his chest like nails on a chalkboard, and he scowls. He’s working himself into one of those moods where everything irritates, everything rubs raw and awful. He can practically hear the buzzing in the back of his head.

Simmons shucks his armor and buries himself under the covers. He waits for dinner to be over. He’s a twenty-seven year old man in the army, for god’s sake, and he most definitely doesn’t sulk.


	3. Assignment Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I actually like being useful.”

By the time Grif comes back with their position assignment, Simmons thinks that he’s probably hungry from skipping dinner, but the truth is that he can’t tell. Simmons has long since thought that nobody _actually_ knows when they’re hungry. People just eat when they’re told and call it a day, like it’s no big deal. Do people _actually_ know what hunger feels like, or are they all just pretending at his expense?

But to be fair, Simmons has tried to make a career out of doing what he’s told.

Speaking of, Simmons has been assigned, according to the slip of paper Grif hands him, to various cleaning duties and a perimeter patrol routine. “ _What_?” he says, somehow in disbelief that a base that doesn’t know him would assign him to the one post he hates. “Grif, did you write this up?”

“Nah, otherwise I’d’ve assigned myself to bed inspection,” Grif sighs. “Getting promoted is overrated, man. What’d you get?”

When Simmons tells him, even Grif bursts out laughing. “Oh, congrats! You get to stand around and stare at the Blues all day! Just like old times!”

“I’m gonna go _crazy_ ,” Simmons laments.

“Come on, that’s like the chillest, easiest job in the army! An actual cakewalk! Provided you don’t like, get shot and die, of course.”

“ _Yeah_ , Grif, of course.” Simmons tosses the paper onto his bedsheet. “I’m not a lazy turd like you, asshole. I actually _like_ being useful.”

“Sucks to be you, dude,” says Grif. “That’s the army for you.”

“I’ll beg a CO to be reassigned to the armory or something. Maybe ammo cataloguing, since I got so good at it doing _your_ job at Blood Gulch,” Simmons mutters. “Somewhere I can organize stuff...”

“That’d get your rocks off, wouldn’t it?”

“Shut up, Grif.” Simmons sits up. “Actually--hey. Since you’re a staff sergeant now, how about _you_ reassign me?”

“No fucking way, dude. That’s way too much effort. I’d have to actually _talk_ to people. File _papers_. Oh, the horror…”

Simmons groans and grits his teeth. “How on earth did a lazy piece of shit like you get promoted over _me_?”

“See, Simmons, you gotta work the system: the goal is to carefully avoid all the positions where you’re actually expected to—” He stops, staring at his position assignment. “Ah, _fuck_.”

“What? Where were you—”

Grif’s schedule reads in bright red letters: _Ammo inventory_.

“No fucking way,” says Grif. “Ammo inventory is for _sergeants_ . Fucking hell, that’s the boringest job in this whole damn place! I can’t sleep, I can’t slack off, there’s nothing to look at but bullets ‘n shit! No, no fucking--hey. Hey, Simmons. _Simmons_.”

“You better not be asking to switch,” says Simmons.

“Let’s switch,” says Grif.

“ _Now_ you want to switch?”

“C’mon,” says Grif. “ _Simmons_. Think of sexy organizational boxes. Organized by size _and_ shape.”

“I don’t actually jack off to organization, asshole.”

“ _Color-coded_ , Simmons.”

Simmons groans and rolls his eyes. “Look, it says right on the paper that only sergeants get those jobs. Okay? I’m not eligible to begin with.”

“C’mon, what’s the point of being part of the systematic chain of command if you can’t be corrupt as fuck?”

“How the hell did you even _join_ the army?” Simmons asks, then says, “No, never mind, I don’t care. Ugh—okay, fine, _but_ —”

Grif pumps his fist.

“—the only person who can file to change our assignments is a commanding officer,” he says, and adds, primly: “Staff Sergeant Grif, _sir_."

Grif’s eyes narrow. “Oh, man,” says Grif. “I think I actually, really, truly hate you.”


	4. Single Stalled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He still watches other people eat, going down the mental list of everything they’re doing right and everything they’re doing wrong.

After two hours of rolling on his bed and complaining like a two-hundred pound baby, Grif drags his ass back out to find a file to change their positions. Then Simmons bounces his leg at a furious pace for all of ten minutes before he heads out to find him.

By now, it’s almost twenty-two-hundred, and military bases never sleep but they do quiet in time for the night patrol. The halls are mostly empty. The night guards are along the outer walls, sliding in and out of the halogen lights.

Simmons spots a fellow private in the halls and asks for directions. He stutters five thousand times, receives directions, can’t hear what he said, asks him to repeat the directions, still doesn’t hear, pretends he heard the directions instead of asking for a third repeat, and speed-walks away. He pauses to bang his head against the wall. He tries to remember what little he heard. Walks with purpose towards where he thinks the captain’s quarters are. Winds up in the armory.

“Great,” he mutters, “I guess I found the armory, if Grif manages to actually switch the jobs, which knowing him, he probably won’t, so I’ve just found his job for him. A brilliant start at your new base, Simmons! Really making a quality impression on your fellow men!”

He immediately spins in place see if anyone heard him talking to himself. There’s nobody in sight. Thank god.

“And now you’re worried about someone hearing you talk to yourself,” he goes on. “And now you’re doing it again! Of course! Honestly, if you put half the effort you do in chattering to yourself into actually figuring shit out, you might have actually—”

Around the back of the armory’s aluminum walls, under the light of a crusty halogen lamp, there’s a pair of bathrooms. Presumably because the armory was a bit out of the way, and it was easier for soldiers working there to hop into a bathroom close-by.

Simmons has some habits he has never broken. He still inspects every trash can he passes. He hates a cluttered room, but has never encountered a messy kitchen because he _will_ clean a dirty kitchen, compulsively, on sight. He still watches other people eat, going down the mental list of everything they’re doing right and everything they’re doing wrong. He still dreads physical exams and was frankly relieved when Sarge didn’t give a single shit about them ever. He still checks every bathroom, out of what he pretends might be curiousity, but sometimes, when he tries to stop himself, he can’t. Now his hands reach out to the men’s door like they’re not his. He can’t say what he’s thinking, because he might not be thinking at all. He hasn’t _had_ to think about these habits in five years.

The bathroom has only a single stall, the purpose of which is defeated by the fact that the door locks. It’s dirty in the cracks, the mirror above the sink is broken, the sink itself is more grey than white, there’s half a lightbulb working, and the air has the vague tang of fermented piss. Simmons squints in the light.

But not a bad size. Not cramped at all. Out of the way, with a door that locks for privacy, and no apparent staff around at this time of day. The only caveat is the women’s bathroom right next door and what Simmons bets are thin walls, but there’s not a single woman in Red Base anyway, so it’s a moot issue.

These are the kinds of bathrooms that Simmons still looks for, after all these years. These are the kinds of bathrooms someone could get away with throwing up in.

He reaches to test the sink, because he’d always liked to wash his face after—

 _Oh, for fuck’s sake_ , Simmons thinks. He’s only been here one day, and he has a whole cast of commanding officers to suck up to. He has _business_ to do, doesn’t he? People to please, asses to kiss, organization to do. And the swelling in his jaw? _Not_ a good look (says Simmons’ internal monologue, in a voice that sounds suspiciously like Donut’s).

Christ, can he even purge anymore now that Sarge replaced his throat? Would his breath still smell like vomit afterwards? Do the seven metal teeth in the back of his jaw even have enamel to erode? He bets Grif would be able to smell the puke on his breath and Grif, the motherfucker, would _absolutely_ ask about it at the worst possible time.

He pulls his hand away. He makes a face in the mirror. Leaves the bathroom and shuts the dirty door and walks off without a backwards glance. “Honestly,” he begins again, “if you put half the effort you do in chattering to yourself into actually figuring shit out, you might have actually found Grif by now, and then you’d have leftover effort to figure _his_ shit out for him, which would solve about seventy-five percent of your own shit anyway…”

 

* * *

 

“Okay, so, I can explain,” says Grif the minute Simmons gets back.

“You were _here_?”

“Uh, yeah, I got back like thirty minutes ago. And I have a _good_ reason why it didn’t work out--”

Simmons groans loudly. “Let me guess," he says. "the good reason is that you got lost, and decided it wasn’t worth it, but then you got turned around and wound up involved with the ‘weed they keep off the premises,’ and then you said something stupid and now a whole bunch of COs are pissed off at you?"

Grif pauses. “Is that...  _n_ _ot_ a good reason...?”


	5. Rat's Wheel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’d know that perfectly-generic blue armor set anywhere.

For your information, Simmons hasn’t thrown up in almost a decade. Not a _whole_ decade, because Simmons hasn’t really been keeping track of the dates; there’s no Very Special Anniversary Of Simmons Getting His Young Adulthood Out Of The Toilet. But he knows he was twenty-two when he purged last, and he knows he was twenty-two because that’s when he was in Basic, just before they shipped him off to Blood Gulch Outpost One.

Simmons is twenty-seven now, which means it’s been five years. That’s almost a decade. Right? It counts. Rounding up the five to a seven, rounding the seven up to an eight, and then rounding up the eight to a ten. That’s definitely how math works. Right? Right?

For Christ’s sake, he’s trying to be optimistic. Five years is a long fucking time, okay?

It _felt_ like a long time.

“Sorry, what?” says Simmons.

Private Sissy--apparently short for “Sissel”--gives him a Look. “I said,” he repeats, “take a look at the new Blue guy.”

They’re standing at the base of the wall, looking across at the Blue Base, which is an identical wall with two Blue guys standing right where Simmons and Sissy are. In short, Grif did _not_ get their jobs switched, and Simmons is standing here in forty degree weather while Grif presumably fucks up whatever organization system they had in the armory. Simmons wrinkles his nose, but takes the binoculars when Sissy offers them. He squints down at the side entrance as Blue Base opens their doors for a jeep, and the new guy jumps out—

Wait a minute, Simmons thinks. He’d know that perfectly-generic blue armor set anywhere. That’s _Caboose_.

“I wonder why they’re bringing in a new guy now?” wonders Sissy. “And just one, too.”

“Well, Grif and I were just transferred, so…”

“That just makes it more suspicious,” says Sissy. “Both Bases getting new guys one day apart?”

“Well, if Grif and I were just transferred because our Base was giving up the canyon, then it’s not implausible that the _other_ Base would also think the canyon wasn’t worth…”

“No, you’re not thinking big enough, Simmons,” says Sissy.

“Oh,” says Simmons. Right, so, Sissy isn’t his superior, but Simmons is _trying_ to not hate all his coworkers on sight--trying to hate _everybody_ on sight--anyway, some butter couldn’t _hurt_. Make eye contact. Nod your head. Be agreeable. No need to kiss as much ass as with superiors, but like--maybe a half-ass kiss. A quarter?

“Uh... Right,” is what Simmons comes up with. “Yes. Absolutely.”

“They must have intel on us. They know that we received new troops.”

“A true state of emergency,” agrees Simmons.

“But they only received _one_ guy,” mutters Sissy. “And we received _two_ guys.”

“An astute observation,” says Simmons. He’s trying _not_ to sound sarcastic, he _swears_ , he’s just shooting for the quarter-ass-kiss ratio, which is a _lot_ harder than his usual default modes of pure brown-nosing and full-tilt superiority.

“And if they have intel on us, but they only got one guy and we got two,” Sissy goes on, “and they _know_ we got two, then…”

“Blue Command is running out of reinforcements to send?” says Simmons.

Sissy gives him a Look. “Not big enough, Simmons,” he says with distaste.

Oh god, Simmons thinks, this is just like junior high all over again. Or maybe it’s been junior high ever since junior high. How come nothing ever changes?

“Clearly, Blue Command has sent in a soldier of unprecedented talent and skill.”

Ohhh, my god, Simmons thinks. Simmons looks through the binoculars again. Caboose is patting the jeep’s windshield with tender care and affection. His CO’s are giving each other Looks.

“I, uh,” says Simmons. “I dunno if he looks the type. In my... _opinion_.”

“Oh, Jesus,” says Sissy, “look at that madness he’s doing to that car. Treating it like it’s got intelligent life—the behavior of mad geniuses around the universe. He’s probably a tech expert, too. They’ve sent in a specialist, Simmons.”

“What an inference,” says Simmons.

“They intend to take this base with the aid of one man. To end this war in one fell swoop.”

Simmons is _trying_ not to despise his coworkers on sight. He _reminds_ himself of this. He’s just chosen the _completely wrong fucking idiot_ for his pilot test. “Oh, diabolical!” says Simmons, and thinks about maybe pushing Sissy out a window.

“And look!” says Sissy, pointing vigorously. “Look at that blue armor! Nobody wears the generic recruits armor anymore. He’s trying to stay under the radar. And the further you want to stay under the radar, the more you have something to hide.”

“Hmmmmm,” says Simmons.

“His ingenuity and intellectual prowess must be even moreso than I had initially assumed,” says Sissy. “A tactical _mastermind_.”

“HMMMMMMM,” says Simmons.

“But I’ve never heard of Blue Command having any such person before,” says Sissy. “Which means that wherever he was before--locked up in some remote outpost, presumably--it was to keep the _secret_.”

Sissy never _shuts the fuck up_. “You don’t say!” says Simmons. At least when Grif never shuts the fuck up, he at least makes himself either stupid enough, familiar enough, or entertaining enough to be worth listening to. Usually all three, nowadays.

“A covert military operation,” says Sissy, “that engineers genetically-modified humans spliced together with the strength and intellect of a thousand soldiers. A one-man army, possessing inhuman strength and intelligence that we can barely comprehend.”

Caboose drops his gun, which fires into the tire of the jeep. The jeep begins to sag. “No, Candice!” he shrieks so loudly that Simmons can hear him at the opposite base. He’s doing that thing again where he names giant metal vehicles after women, Simmons thinks, which is usually the precursor to the giant metal vehicle woman trying to kill a small fleshy human man.

“Candice,” says Sissy. “A code word for some torturous, heartless experiment he plans to inflict upon his prisoners…”

“UHHH,” says Simmons. “Yyyyy _eah_."

“…in a chilling recreation of the mind-breaking torture he suffered in captivity.”

“That sounds. HmmmMMm. EXACTly right,” Simmons says.

“No doubt his mind, incredibly powerful as it may be, is hopelessly shattered into anxiety, misanthropy, and suicidal self-loathing as a result of his torture, which he cannot remember because he’s been rebooted and placed at a remote outpost for years to hide him from himself and other prying eyes; as simultaneously, the multiple personality fragments that emerged from his torture were harvested and placed into the AI implants of other supersoldiers…”

As is something that outlandish could ever happen, thinks Simmons. It breaks the suspension of disbelief, is all he’s saying.

Then Sissy says something and Simmons blinks and didn’t catch it. “Sorry, what?” says Simmons.

Sissy gives him a Look. Simmons has the feeling that the agreeable-ness tactic is not working.

Well, okay, _fine_ , Simmons didn’t like Sissy anyway.

“I _said_ , I’m going to radio in that the Blues have a new guy,” he says. “News this catastrophic _cannot_ be left unreported. We have a one-man apocalypse coming in, Simmons, just you wait.”

“A brilliant idea,” says Simmons, through gritted teeth.

“Anything you want to add to the report?”

Simmons watches the blue COs wrestle the distraught Caboose inside the Blue Base. Sissy is going to be _pissed_ when he figures it out, and Simmons can’t _wait_ for Sissy to figure it out. Preferably in front of everyone who held Sissy in moderate- to high-esteem and all his COs. Simmons’ll video it on his helmet cam, and if he’s not there when it happens, he’ll make Grif do it.

Basically, screw this guy. “Nope!” he says. “Nothing at all! A great report.”

“Good,” says Sissy, satisfied. “We’ll wrap that up, and then our shift will be over, and we can head down for lunch.” And he turns away to fiddle with his radio.

The thought of lunch makes Simmons almost nauseous. He hadn’t eaten breakfast, because a staff sergeant told Grif to move all his shit to his new room at four in the fucking morning, and he’d had to help because Grif, of course, began complaining very loudly about being woken up at four in the fucking morning, which woke up _Simmons_ at four in the fucking morning, and he’d figured that he had to help Grif move all his shit or he’d never get Grif and Grif’s complaining out of his room--not that it mattered in the end, because Simmons was moved to the common dorm right after that, anyway. Therefore, Simmons assumes that the tight ball of dread in his stomach is because he hadn’t eaten breakfast. Or dinner the night before, come to think of it.

He hasn’t skipped a meal, unless there was absolutely no food available, in five years. Almost seven, which is almost eight, which is almost a decade, right? There were no opportunities to miss a mealtime with Sarge breathing down everyone’s necks and yelling about how they couldn’t defeat the dirty Blues if they didn’t eat Command’s freeze-dried cardboard. Hadn’t been his choice--Sarge loved MREs. (“Builds character! Can be used to bludgeon people to death! Pisses Grif off! What’s not to love about MREs?”) And there were no single-stalled bathrooms with doors that locked in Blood Gulch, either.

Now that Simmons thinks about it--in Blood Gulch, there were no options to consider: Simmons ate the MRE, and he ate _all_ of the MRE, and he kept it down, and it drove him _nuts_ . There was nothing else he could do, but that didn’t stop him from thinking about it constantly, like rubbing his fingers over a scab--or wanting to keep marathoning a TV show he’d already finished and instead just thinking about it all day long--or itching to solve a set of math problems (which, apparently, was uniquely a Simmons thing). And with all the time he’d had while stand around with Grif--back before Grif and Simmons had filled the time with sniping at each other--he’d waste entire hours, staring at the Blues, thinking about throwing up, wondering what they actually put in those MREs, listing and relisting every processed fake ingredient that he’d sworn to avoid, all of which could be in his intestines _right then_ , until Grif came by to piss him off.

But nothing changed. Sarge still made him eat. Sarge stared at him until he did, sometimes with a shotgun. Grif was still always in the communal bathroom, and the hallways echoed like the biggest tattle-tale waiting to happen. Simmons, grudgingly, accepted that mealtimes and what happened at meals was now entirely out of his hands, and there was no point to thinking about it anymore. He had no choice but to go with what the rest of Red Team did.

So sometime after he was posted in Blood Gulch, he just… stopped thinking about it. And by “sometime,” he means he stopped thinking about it after _four straight years_.

(But at least he did better than Church. The asshole _never_ stopped pining after Tex.)

“Sorry, what?” says Simmons.

“I _said_ , what’s your first name? Colonel wants to know,” asks Sissy. His Look is only growing stronger.

“Uh,” says Simmons. “Dick.”

Sissy snorts and turns away again. Simmons feels dry and strung-out and wonders if throwing _himself_ out a window would be less painful than the mortification in his stomach. He kind of wishes Caboose could come back out of the Blue Base--not that he had any particular fondness for any of the Blues from Blood Gulch, but so that it really could be like old times: Simmons standing on the wall, staring at the Blues, thinking about throwing up, wondering if he should go with Sissy to lunch and what will happen if he does.

Well, no, that bit’s new, since he’s never had the option to skip. For that matter, he _will_ go to lunch. That’s how the routine went in Blood Gulch.

He doesn’t have to.

But he should. That’s how the routine…

But he doesn’t have to.

Just--look. Come on. Before he goes any further, don’t get him wrong--there’s a conventional word for a person who eats food and throws up, and that’s _not_ Simmons.

See, Simmons doesn’t have--ugh, what’s that word? _Bulimia_.

How _gross_. Bulimia is for teenaged white girls who want to be thin but don’t want to diet, frittering around in high school before they grow out of it and join a yoga class and flip back and forth between varying degrees of veganism. Alternatively, bulimia is for _gay_ men--skinny twinks with no muscle and 6% body fat. Bulimia is lazy, hedonistic, and a waste of food. Simmons is a white straight man (part grey cyborg?), far past his teenage years, and doing his best to be the _antithesis_ of lazy and gay and hedonistic.

And Simmons _definitely_ knows he doesn’t have bulimia because Simmons doesn’t think he’s fat. Fucked-up girls look in the mirror and think _oooh,_ oh _nooo_ , I’m so _fat_ , I have to stop eating for _ever_ , but really they’re stick-thin, and Simmons knows this because that’s what the old anorexia commercials said, and those are real and good and _totally_ accurate depictions of what it’s like to have an eating disorder.

No, Simmons knows that his weight is within the normal BMI range--a little on the low side, even, because Simmons is much taller than average. And for that matter, being a shapeless stringbean with no muscle definition isn’t fun, either. He’s a soldier, right? Where’s his ripped set of abs and pair of biceps? Instead, he has a tiny pouch of gut-fat that never goes away, a knobbly chest, no chest, bony elbows, flabby arms. He looks normal in a size medium shirt, and disproportionate in his underwear. He can see himself just fine, when he can bear to look, and when he can bear to think of anyone else looking at him.

Simmons’s body suits him, down to his personality, his face, his intelligence, his education, his family history, his outpost at Blood Gulch, his entire military career: Sub-par to mediocre, plain and unappealing. To no point, purpose, or consequence to anyone.

QED: Simmons is a mentally healthy and functioning individual with absolutely zero hang-ups whatsoever.

“Sorry, what?” says Simmons.

Sissy gives him a Look.

“Never mind,” Sissy says. “Shift’s over now. Lunchtime.”

Simmons looks back at where Caboose disappeared into Blue Base. Sissy still has the Look on his face, like how Caboose’s CO’s did when he accidentally shot their jeep, and Simmons doesn’t really want to sit at a table across from that Look. Makes him nauseous up to his eyes just to think of it. But he should go.

He will.

He doesn’t have to.

He should.

He doesn’t have to.

He--

“You go on ahead,” says Simmons.

 

* * *

 

  
He sits by the gate for the next four hours and watches the new shift come and go. He thinks about getting lunch and throwing it up for just for something to do, like back in the day, anything but being here; this is why he waits until the kitchen has closed and all the leftovers are packed away before he stands to find something (anything) to do, even as he wonders what the point of not throwing up even is, what he stands to gain by not giving in. He can’t remember why he ever wanted to stop.


	6. Prissy Sissy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I know, it’s practically five-star dining."

“That guy sounds like an asshole,” says Grif the next day.

Simmons kicks a box of spare armor bits. “Yeah, he was,” he says, but without much certainty.

“Dude, his name is _Sissy_. No way he’s not a dick.”

Everyone’s who’s ever not liked Simmons is a dick. This has been Simmons’s personal policy for ages. But that means Simmons is surrounded by dicks. Thousands of dicks. Around every corner, in his face, riding his ass—

 _Oooookay_ , Simmons should have used the word “douchebag” instead of dick, because this is getting weird.

“Sorry, what?” says Simmons.

Grif gives him a look, but it’s not a Look. “I said, I guess this place really does suck,” says Grif. He lifts the box of spare armor and shoves it on a shelf with more force than necessary. “I figured it’d be better since fucking _Sarge_ isn’t here, but I guess there’s CO’s no matter where you go, and being made a CO turns you into a hard-assed lunatic--Simmons, if I ever start yelling at subordinates for being lazy fuckers, you have to shoot me.”

“Rules exist for a reason,” sniffs Simmons. This, Simmons believes. This, Simmons believes more than Grif could ever possibly know.

“Ugh. Rules. Routines. _Regulations_. No thanks. I’m more of a free-spirited kinda guy. Take it my own speed. Go with my gut. Let my passions lead. Actually, my passions are taking me to breakfast. Let’s get outta here before they steal all my ketchup packets.”

“Yeah,” says Simmons, “because following no schedule and no rules and no principles whatsoever has really helped you do something with your life, huh?”

“My career in sleeping on demand, mediocre to sub-par performance, and disappointing my friends and family is really taking off,” says Grif. “I said come _on_.”

This is Simmons’s third day on this base. It is the first meal he has eaten since arriving. He knows this is a bad idea because the idea of food sounds _divine_ right now, and it’s never a good idea to eat when he’s hungry, and especially never a good idea to eat when he’s tired from not having been able to sleep. But he’d been up all night worrying about being tired from being hungry which made him unable to sleep in the first place? But—

“Sorry, what?” says Simmons.

Grif frowns. “Geez, are you out of it or what?”

\--Right. He’s reaching the point where he can’t focus, which he vaguely remembers being a thing that used to happen sometimes, back In The Day.

Going with Grif might not be so bad, Simmons thinks.

(This, later, is what Simmons realizes was a Mistake. Having a friend is no substitute for having a battle plan.)

The mess hall doesn’t just serve standard meals. There’s a serving line--poor schmucks who get assigned to kitchen duty ask what main course, what side, what condiment you want on your tray, and you have to tell them what you want. There’s a main course, a side, a fruit, and a drink.

“I know, it’s practically five-star dining,” says Grif. “Wait, you haven’t been here yet? Isn’t this like, your third day on this base?”

“I’ve had some snacks in my bunk,” Simmons lies.

“Shit, where’d you get them? Hook me up, dude.”

“ _Hell_ no. You’ll eat them all,” Simmons lies again, without thinking twice. Like riding a bike.

Grif goes through the line first. The options are oatmeal, eggs, toast, jam, apples, bananas, apple juice, orange juice, and Grif’s ketchup packets. Simmons stares at the food line until the first server gives him a dirty look from under his cap. “Hurry up,” he snaps. “What do you want?”

“What the guy before me had,” says Simmons without thinking. Ah, _shit_ , he’s taking dietary advice from _Grif_.

Grif, as it turns out, got the oatmeal (main course), the jam (the side), the ketchup (the fruit (???????)), and the milk (the drink). Simmons stares at his plate. “Grif, what the hell is this,” he says when they find a table. “ _None_ of these go together.”

Grif, oddly enough, seems mock-offended. “Don’t look at me. I thought _you’d_ get the eggs and the toast, and then I could put the jam on the toast, and then you’d have the eggs and the milk, and I’ll save the ketchup for the freeze-dried meat patties at lunch…”

“When did we decide to turn our breakfast into a jigsaw puzzle?!”

“You’ve literally eaten the same fucking thing for breakfast every day for the last five years,” says Grif.

Grif is right. Those were the rules: Simmons eats precisely four eggs and a coffee with one ounce of milk every morning. But here they serve coffee that he can taste the pre-added sugar in, plus one egg not four, and they expect him to supplement the rest of the meal with a bunch of other shit that Simmons _really_ would rather not deal with and all their consequences. And even if he were going to build a new breakfast plan, were they going to have eggs and milk tomorrow? The answer was that Simmons didn’t know. In Blood Gulch, there was always those awful instant-egg packets with the even-awfuller instant-milk powder with the strangely-decent instant-coffee, they literally _never_ ran out, he could always rely on them, it was a permanent solution to a temporary station, and once he got used to it and he didn’t die he figured it’d be okay to keep eating it; but here, what could he expect? A new menu every day, ingredients he doesn’t know--this shit is like 75% processed grains? How was he supposed to fend off all this—

“I guess we’ll find out what ketchup in oatmeal tastes like,” says Grif, and rips open his packets.

“ _No_ , that is disgusting--Grif, don’t you _dare_ —”

Over Grif’s shoulder, Simmons sees Sissy come in through the front entrance. Grif takes the moment to pour ketchup all over his oatmeal. “Ugh, Grif, that’s gross!”

“Gotta live to eat, man,” says Grif, and shoves it into his mouth.

Simmons shoves his own tray at Grif. “Well, _thanks_ , asshole, now I’m not hungry.”

“Perfect. More for me.”

Simmons sits across from Grif and pretends there’s nobody else around. He waits to escape. He definitely does not make eye contact with Sissy. Sissy is a toolbag and Simmons does _not_ want to talk to him and this is what Simmons tells himself over and over. There’s literally nothing happening but Grif eating his abomination of a breakfast, and somehow Simmons still feels like he can’t handle everything happening so much and so fast all at once.

Simmons snags his tray back. “Hey!” Grif says, but Simmons ignores him. Now that Simmons thinks about it, oatmeal always did come up smoother than eggs. This is the fastest and easiest decision Simmons has ever made.


	7. Old Habits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “At least tell me who he was!”

All their old habits are back within the week. Caboose teamkills his first CO, according to rumor. Grif’s entire squad requests to be moved to a more competent leader. Simmons begins to throw up again.

See, Caboose turned out to be _very_ fond of Candice the Warthog, and Candice was also equipped with autofiring machine guns, and Caboose did have that habit of disassembling mechanical equipment just to put it back together in ways that were _technically_ functional, but not quite--what was that thing people said about creating in one’s own image? And Grif _says_ that he was only a useless piece of shit back at Blood Gulch because the only person he hated more than Simmons was Sarge, but it turns out (to Simmons’s _utter_ lack of shock) that Grif is _actually_ just a useless piece of shit who wouldn’t do a pull-up unless it was to prevent his own imminent demise off an icy cliff, and even then he’d probably wheedle Simmons into doing it for him. After all, theory says that humans are creatures of habit, by which theory means that humans preserve limited conscious cognitive resources by automating common routines and skills in the subconscious, which in turn—

“Holy shit,” says Grif. “You got _laid_.”

Simmons chokes. “I _what_?” When? Where? Did Simmons miss it? Is Grif talking about some other person in the empty armory with just the two of them?

“You,” declares Grif, “got _laid_.”

“No I didn’t! I mean—I—I just—”

“Oh my god, I’m saying you got laid, not that you killed a man, no need to sound so guilty,” says Grif.

“Grif, I _have_ killed a man. Multiple men. I’m a soldier.”

“Who, you? _When_? The Flowers guy died from aspirin, the Church guy died from Caboose, the Tex chick died from—”

“ _We_ killed a man in Basic within two hours of meeting each other.”

“Yeah, whatever,” says Grif (but he still makes a sign of the cross for Hammer). “But for real, dude. I know these things. You have the face.”

Simmons frowns. “What face?”

“And the chill,” says Grif.

“ _What_ chill?”

“Yeah, like that,” says Grif. “Like, if this was unfucked-Simmons, you’d be like—” Grif pitches his voice two octaves higher: “‘ _Fuck off, Grif, I’m super chill all the time, I’m the chillest and the coolest and I need everyone to love me to compensate for my leaky-boat self-esteem—_ ’”

“Fuck off, Grif, I _am_ super chill all the time,” snaps Simmons—

Grif bursts out laughing.

“--and I do _not_ have leaky-boat self-esteem! What the fuck _is_ leaky-boat self-esteem?”

Grif waves a hand. “You’re relaxed! You’re not freaking out over the S-E-X word! You _definitely_ got laid.”

“I did not!”

“What, you’re proud of being an unfuckable virgin, now?”

“I’m not _unfuckable_ —”

“You got someone who disproved that?”

Simmons slams his pistol down. “I’m swapping this in for a new one! Good-bye!” he half-yells with an awful nervous crack in his voice, takes the first gun he can see, and leaves.

“At least tell me who he was!” Grif yells after him, and Simmons almost shoots Grif right there for the pronoun.

 

* * *

 

Functionally speaking, nothing happened. There’s no true, real, magical moment that breaks him. Simmons didn’t have any oath or commitment to not throwing up his food--he would have if Blood Gulch had let him. And it’s not like he can’t dabble in his old habits and _also_ hunt for promotions, right? So when Simmons tries to make sense of the whole affair, his usual fall-back is: “Old habits.”

The whole throwing-up affair is, in fact, _so_ old and habitual and therefore mundane that it’s boring to think about. It’s boring to even recount. When telling a story, no narrator talks about the mundanities:  _he woke up and brushed his teeth; he put on his clothes; he walked outside his room; he stared at the Blues for five hours with Grif; Sarge yelled about nothing; Simmons and Grif argued about nothing; Grif tried to leave for the Vegas quadrant—”C’mon, Simmons, let’s go”—”We can’t”—”Why not?”—”Because we’re waiting for—”_

 _—_ literally _anything_ other than Simmons’s life to happen. Yeah, see, this is why Simmons isn’t exactly going to be part of the main cast of a hit TV show anytime soon, let alone the main feature of an individual novel-memoir. Who the fuck wants to hear about a life spent doing _nothing_?

Here’s how the newest iteration of old and fucking _dull_ habits roll over and drag their groggy asses out of bed to better Simmons’s career in doing nothing: Simmons is, as it turned out, _very_ hungry after not eating for three days. What a _shocker_ ! Almost as if the body desires to maintain a state of homeostasis in terms of energy regulation and storage! Well--that is not to say that biology isn’t more than the sum of its parts, or that bodily stored energy mass isn’t more than the sum of its laws of thermodynamics, but--oh, he digresses; he’s had this argument with himself before, vehemently, throughout his high school and college years; he’s had the low carb debate and the low fat debate and the vegan debate and the thirty-banana-challenge debate (which, for the record, is the one debate he refuses to ever have ever again, thanks). Old news. Old debates. Old habits. He can rattle off a thousand different arguments over a topic he's not sure he _cares_ about. Simmons is twenty-seven and he’s already crusty and calcified and old.

Anyway, he eats breakfast with Grif. He goes to the bathroom behind the armory and he throws it up. Then he washes his face in the sink and leaves.

A _thrilling_ tale, right? Like brushing teeth: apply toothpaste to brush, drag brush across teeth, spit, rinse, leave. Again: functionally speaking, nothing happened.

After that, Simmons doesn’t have anything to do. He feels light-headed, actually--a friendly, protective buzz that makes him a little unsteady. His stomach hurts a bit with the pain of how fast it’d become empty, but it’s a familiar sort of hurt, one that he’d thought he’d forgotten but had only forgotten to miss. He floats down the hallway and into the sleeping quarters and sits on his bed.

Just sat. Staring off into space. Not thinking about anything. He doesn’t have anywhere to be, no drills until the afternoon. Voices troop past the door outside and he can barely hear them, let alone care.

He pulls off his armor and lies back in his bed, tucking his arms behind his head to prop himself up--not to go to sleep, but to relax and do... nothing. To just lie there and do nothing at all. To lounge around in a head that feels scooped clean of its junk and chatter. It’s nice. It’s really nice. He wants to enjoy it and not think too hard for just a little while.

For the first time in over five years, it’s peaceful, both inside and out.

Like he said: nothing happened.

 

* * *

 

By the time Grif suspects that Simmons is have illicit gay sex to de-stress behind his back, Simmons is throwing up dinner twice a week and going to sleep tired and content.


	8. Fudged Smudge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Oh my god,” says Grif, “you do not believe that, do not give me that shit.”

Caboose is such a teamkilling menace that Red Base is actually starting to _lose._

“He’s killing his _own_ team,” says Simmons, “and _we’re_ losing?”

They’re sitting at the window where Grif, in theory, swaps weapons for anyone who comes by needing a weapon or ammo change. But mostly Grif just uses the window and the accompanying desk to slam his helmet against in frustration and boredom. “I _know_. I don’t know how that’s possible, either. I think the people leading ops against him right now are just so shocked that they stand there until Caboose sets something else on fire, which starts spitting bullets, which hits a nearby alien-moose wildlife, which gets pissed and spears them through the gut.”

“That’s an _oddly_ specific example,” says Simmons.

“And you know whose problem this is?” Grif complains.

“Not mine,” says Simmons gleefully.

“ _No,_ of _course_ it’s not,” says Grif. “It’s _mine."_

“Because _you_ got promoted,” says Simmons, “ _unfairly._ ”

“Y’know, Simmons, I don’t complain to you so you can use your snotty Irish ‘I told you so’ voice on me. Nothing’s unfair in this piece of shit world and you know it.”

“Nothing except you having to lead an actual military operation to take out Caboose, which is why you’re complaining to me about it.”

“Exactly,” says Grif.

“I didn’t think you could possibly become more of a piece of shit,” says Simmons, and stands up. “I’m out. I have to _patrol_ for the _Blue Menace_ in twenty. Have fun doing nothing at your disorganized, un-color-coded armory, and hating your job.”

“Hey, I’m your CO, dude,” says Grif. “Shouldn’t you be kissing my ass?”

Simmons makes a long and exaggerated noise of disgust.

“Oh thank god,” says Grif. “To be honest, I’d lose my mind if you started treating me like Sarge.”

“Wow, really?” says Simmons, in his dryest, most brown-nosing voice: “Then I’ll do my best not to, sir!”

Grif makes an equally long and exaggerated noise of disgust. “Uh, no, _no_ no, no no no, don’t you dare use your ass-kissing voice on m—”

“No idea what you’re talking about, sir!”

“ _NO_ , holy _shit_ —”

“I would never do anything to make you uncomfortable, sir!”

“Simmons you’re freaking me the _fuck_ out—”

“Whatever it is you need, just let me know, sir!” parrots Simmons.

Grif gives a small shriek and slams the window closed. Simmons snickers to himself. Takes a moment and realizes what it was he’d just said.

“Wait a minute,” he mutters. “Do I really sound that?”

“Yes you do! And it’s really fucking annoying, too!” says Grif’s voice through the shutters.

“What the hell?” Simmons demanded. “How come nobody ever told me I sound like a giant tool?!”

“What the _fuck_ ,” says Grif’s voice, “do you think I’ve been telling you for the last _five years_?!”

Simmons scowls at the metal shutters.

“You’re absolutely right, sir!” says Simmons. “A source of wisdom as always, sir!”

The shutters clang angrily. “Shut _up_ , Simmons!”

 

* * *

 

 

But apparently, Grif really hates the armory job. More than even Simmons banked on.

Grif hates the armory _so much_ that Grif was _selling_ the armory to the fucking _Blues_ just so he wouldn’t have to deal with it. Simmons is completely unsurprised, and is still riding the high from having thrown up not two hours ago, and thus remains calm.

“WHAT THE _FUCK,_ ” Simmons shrieks. “You’re going to get yourself SHOT, or COURT-MARTIALED, or—”

Grif grabs Simmons by the visor--puts his sticky black glove right on Simmons’s _clean, finger-print-less, smudge-free helmet glass_ and drags him down so their faces are inches away. “Shut,” Grif hisses, “ _up_ , Simmons!”

Simmons flails his arms and Grif scrabbles his sticky black gloves all over Simmons’s helmet and Simmons yells “Get your nasty hands off my helmet!” to which _Grif_ yells “I will when you stop _screaming like a girl_ ” and then they have a silent standing wrestling match of Grif trying to rub his filthy fucking hands all over Simmons’s armor and Simmons trying to slap Grif’s hands away like a game of whack-a-mole that turns into Simmons getting revenge by rubbing _his_ dirty gloves all over _Grif’s_ visor and Grif not giving a single shit about _cleanliness_ per se but he can’t stand Simmons rubbing his hands on Grif’s visor on the principle of being a stubborn bastard who doesn’t like to lose so in the end they stand there rubbing greasy gloveprints on each other’s helmets like fucking toolbags.

“Okay, we look stupid,” says Grif. “Truce?”

Simmons shoves him. “I said _truce_!” says Grif, and shoves him right back. Simmons moves to shove him again but Grif ducks and Simmons knows he isn’t athletic enough for another try so he cuts his losses to his meager, damaged, non-athletic dignity and instead pops his helmet off in the snootiest, huffiest manner he can manage. “Simmons, it will _not_ kill you to have germs on your helmet,” says Grif.

“I can’t _believe_ you,” Simmons says, pulling out a cleaning rag. “Betraying the Reds, selling our ammo to the _Blues_ so they can use our own ammo against us to kill _our_ men, betraying our cause—”

“Oh my god,” says Grif, “you do _not_ believe that, do _not_ give me that shit.”

“Well, maybe I do! How would you know!”

“Because I’ve been standing post with you at the same base for _five years,_ ” says Grif.

“Fuck,” whispers Simmons.

“Yeah, dude, every time you ask ‘how would you know,’” says Grif, “that’s literally _always_ the answer. Every time.”

Simmons plants his helmet on the ground. Simmons does not think that that should literally always be the answer, especially since they never talked about anything of substance, or at least tried their best not to. “Fine, whatever,” says Simmons. “But I am _not_ associated with you, got it? I don’t know anything about this. In fact, I’m going to pretend this all never happened, and I’m going to go on my merry way, and when you get caught because you were lazy and messed up some paper trail, I’m not going to do diddly-fucking-squat to get you out of this crooked path of thievery and embezzlement.”

“What? No, dude, I’m not going to get caught,” says Grif. “I covered my trail perfectly. I’m a master of this. I’m the thievery and embezzlement _king_.”

“No,” says Simmons, “you watched your ass the first couple of times, and then you got lazy, and started cutting corners, and now you’re barely watching for—”

“Fuck off!” says Grif. “How would you know?!”

“Because I’ve been standing post with you at the same base for—”

“ _Fuck_ ,” says Grif.

“Uh-huh,” says Simmons. He puts his helmet back on and stands up. “Well, it’s been nice knowing you, Grif. But I’m not intending to go down with you, so—”

“Stop, stop, wait,” says Grif.

Simmons stops. But waiting would be a waste of time, honestly, because he knows exactly what’s going to come out of Grif’s mouth next: “No," says Simmons, "no, no, nope, do _not_ say what you’re about to say. What part of _I’m not intending to go down with you_ did you not--”

“Sure, you might not be _intending_ to,” says Grif. “But you’re definitely going to.”

“What kind of logic is that?!”

“And I think you’re gonna cover my paper trail,” Grif muses.

“Why the fuck _would_ I?”

Grif thinks about this. “Beeeeeeecause I’m your commanding officer?”

“Sir, yes sir!” chirps Simmons.

“No! Christ! Not like that! Okay, okay,” says Grif. “I’ll give you a cut.”

“You’re going to _pay_ me your dirty money,” says Simmons, “to cover up your dirty money trail. So you can continue to squander our resources, cripple our army, send our troops in circles, lead our men to tactical ruin, and make a meager amount of pocket money that you can barely spend at the tiny, shitty commissary that doesn’t even sell tissues.”

See, this is Grif’s _thing_ : there’s no consequences to him. Or at least, none that count. Nothing _really_ matters, and because nothing really matters, there’s no reason to do anything, and there’s no reason _not_ to do anything. In short, enabling thinking that justifies all sorts of awful bad habits. It’s obnoxious, horrendous, _reprehensible_ behavior that’s frighteningly consistent, to the point that they both know how this conversation ends seconds before it does:

Grif says, “What else are you gonna do at this shithole of a base?”

Simmons says, “I need to know what ammo you sold, on what days, and where they were stored."


	9. Battle Plate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barely? Somewhat? Completely?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short but important chapter yall. dense like cheesecake

Grif’s not giving a single shit about anything makes him a good partner-in-crime. It also makes him an objectively awful leader.

“You’re an objectively awful leader,” Simmons tells him at breakfast.

“Boo hoo, take it to someone who cares,” says Grif, yawning, then scratches his asscrack and rubs his nose with the same hand, which is so fucking gross.

“You’re so fucking gross,” Simmons complains.

“Boo hoo, take it to—”

“I _get_ it,” Simmons groans, “you don’t care.”

They’re sitting in the corner of the mess hall. Soldiers eyeball Grif with wariness. And, okay, Simmons is no social butterfly. It doesn't come naturally to him, either. But he knows a bad job when he sees one, and by god, he is always 100% attuned to the imminent possibility that everyone hates him, which also seems to be the current reality. And it doesn't take a genius--or paranoia--or anxiety--or shit self-esteem--okay, whatever, let's get off this train of thought. All you need is like,  _two_ brain cells to comprehend that the last operation against Caboose put eight of their men in the hospital. Add a third brain cell and kick that logic into high gear: leaders that let enemies put their men in the hospital aren't liked. They didn’t trust Grif’s orders off the field, they didn’t trust Grif’s orders _on_ the field, and now they don't trust Grif.

He wonders what they're thinking. Do they know that Grif and Simmons are sitting at the same table not out of choice, but because they have to? How transparently are they just two sad losers who can’t play nice with anyone else they haven’t been stationed together with for five years beforehand? Barely? Somewhat? Completely?

He spears at his rubbery eggs and watches the yolk bleed. He ate eggs in Blood Gulch because there’s no fun in throwing up eggs. Always chunky. Never dissolves right. It’s always like that with proteins. It’s the consistency that’s key to both getting it all up and not getting weird chunks stuck in your throat and nose, and proteins and dairies never play well with the stomach acids and liquids. Doesn't feel right.

“Yeah, keep up that glare,” says Grif, sounding appreciative. “I don’t want any of these assholes coming near me before I’ve gotten at _least_ my first plate down. Fuckin’ subordinates, always needing junk… expecting me to do my responsibilities…”

“Yeah,” says Simmons. Another soldier turns away from them. He thinks he sees Sissy in the food service line. His throat squirms with something like guilt, with something like need.

"Let's hurry up and get out of here," he says. He's not sure if he wants to throw up the eggs yet, but it's starting to look like a good idea, and he has to be early if he wants to hit the armory bathroom and not be late. "I have first shift,” explains Simmons, “and _you_ need to get your ass to the armory, because I know that everyone else on the first shift is terrified about the Blue Menace and they all want better weapons and chest-pieces, so the armory is going to be their first stop.”

“Ugh,” groans Grif, and mutters: “First stop Zippy’s, or whatever.”

“What’s a Zippy?” asks Simmons.

Grif does a doubletake. Clears his throat.

“What? Oh, nah, it’s nothing.”

“Yeah, based on the fact that this is _you_ ,” says Simmons, “I somehow don’t believe that.”

“No, I’m for real, it’s just an inside joke from home--”

“This is some kind of sex thing that I didn’t get, isn’t it,” says Simmons.

Grif chokes. Bursts into sniggers.

“I _knew_ it,” says Simmons. “What is it really?”

Grif is laughing in his hands.

“What? What’s going on? Why do we need to stop at Zippy’s? Why first? Is it important? Is this an STD joke, or a--no, wait, this is a drugs thing, isn’t it? It’s-- _what_?”

Sissy is looking at them with disdain. Everyone in the hall gives Grif and his laughter fit a wide berth. Simmons figures he probably should too; he should drop Grif like a hot potato and make a break for the career ladder. Doesn't matter that Grif's a CO anymore. Simmons is shooting himself in the foot by being seen with him. He has to scout out who to cozy up to, has to tell Grif to pretend they don't know each other, has to, has to... 

"Grif, shut  _up_ ," snaps Simmons. 

Grif shuts up. Grif, in fact, freezes altogether and gives him a dirty look that could sour milk. "Oh, Jesus, Simmons. What've you got against enjoying yourself? What crawled up your ass this time?"

"I don't-- _nothing_ crawled up my ass, we just... need to go."

"Then  _y_ _ou_ can go," Grif mutters. " _I'm_ going to sit and enjoy my breakfast like a normal human being who doesn't have a freakishly early internal body clock."

"The HUD Sarge installed in my eyepiece can't be set early because it's synced to--"

" _Simmoooooons_ ," Grif whines, and sighs. "I just... Come on. Can you be a prissy know-it-all  _after_ eight o'clock?"

Simmons stiffens. "I'm not..."

"Okay. Whatever," sighs Grif. "Christ, I'm so tired of..." But he stops before he completes the thought, and mutters again, "Okay, whatever," and shoves a piece of toast in his mouth instead.

Simmons and Grif sit there, not looking at each other and not looking at everyone else looking at them and not looking at themselves. Instead, Simmons looks down at his plate.

Yeah, he’ll make do with the eggs. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> zippy's is a local restaurant chain that serves local kine hawaii food! they had a commercial that used to go around (idk if it's still airing) that shows people who grew up on the islands coming back to hawaii by plane, and their first stop is zippy's where they can get all the foods they missed on the mainland lol.
> 
> insofar as i know, this is the only instance of a commercial telling a completely true statement.


	10. Letter Day, pt. 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Therefore: Sissy.

On the third time Simmons pre-arranges an ammo trade with the Blues, Grif comes back with his dirty Blue money and complains, “Caboose gets _letters._ ”

“Like paper m--wait, you sold ammo to _Caboose_?” Simmons says. “What, are all his friends turrets or something?”

“He needs bullets to keep them fed,” says Grif. “He drives a hard bargain.”

“I’m terrified to ask,” says Simmons, “but. Does Caboose even know how money works?

Grif dumps a mass of tangled necklaces, unidentified mechanical parts, two watches, a car battery, a party horn, a pack of edible red chalk, a paper letter, and a bottle of headlight fluid on the ground.

“That’s not payment,” says Simmons.

“Dibs on the chalk,” says Grif.

“What--no, dibs on the watches—”

“Dibs on the other watch—”

“I called dibs on both!” cries Simmons.

“And dibs on the necklaces!”

“Then _I_ call dibs on the battery and mechanical parts!”

“Yeah, good luck doing anything with that without Lopez.”

\--Which leaves the letter and the headlight fluid.

Grif holds up the headlight fluid. “Do you, uh, need this, uh… thing?” asks Grif.

“Why would _I_ need it?” asks Simmons. “ _You_ run the armory.”

“Yeah, the armory, not the car shop. Don’t you need this for like--your new car battery?”

“It’s headlight fluid, not battery fluid.”

They look at the headlight fluid again.

“Headlight fluid is a real thing?” Grif asks.

Simmons shrugs.

“Chuck it?” asks Grif.

“Chuck it,” says Simmons.

\--Which leaves the letter. Which was technically paper mail, but was really just a regular digital message that had been printed.

“This is addressed to Caboose,” says Simmons.

“I can read, Simmons.”

Simmons glares at him. “I _mean_ , we can’t just take this as payment. First off, it’s worth jack shit. And second off, it’s private. It’s written for Caboose, not us.”

“He said that he thinks we miss the Blues as much as he does,” says Grif. “Except Tucker. By which I think he meant he thinks _we_ miss Tucker, but _he_ doesn’t, because apparently Caboose can hold a grudge like a motherfucker.”

They pause.

“ _Do_ we miss Tucker?” Grif asks.

“Do you wanna watch _Reservoir Dogs_ again?” asks Simmons.

“We don’t miss Tucker,” says Grif.

“This letter isn’t even from Tucker,” says Simmons. “Where’d he go, anyway? And--this letter _still_ isn’t adequate payment. Grif, you have to take this back to Caboose.”

“He said he wants us to have it,” says Grif.

“He doesn’t want it?" 

“He says he keeps digital copies of all the letters he gets from his sisters, and from Church, and apparently also from Donut, who I assume is what Caboose meant when he said he was corresponding with Admiral Cheesecake,” says Grif. “He keeps it in his helmet. He likes to print them out so he can read them, quote unquote, ‘more softly,’ but now he’s just going to stick to the digital copy.”

“What? Why?”

“One of his COs got pissy about it. So now he prints it out and later destroys the evidence.”

“He gave us contraband,” says Simmons.

“What? No. Why would _letters_ be contraband?”

“I dunno, Grif. How come _we_ don’t get letters?” says Simmons.

Simmons says that just to bitch, because he really can’t sell this letter for cash and he’s cranky. In truth, if he actually received a letter from his parents--his parent--each parent separately?--anyway, if he received a letter from either one of those two, Simmons doesn’t know what he’d do. He thinks his head might implode with the urge to both set the letter on fire and to keep it under his pillow every night, or possibly just do both simultaneously and resultingly set his own head on fire, which might be less painful than actually reading the letters. But—

“Yeah,” says Grif. “Why _don’t_ we get letters?”

\--Simmons doesn’t think before he talks because he never learned how to converse with another human being. Only himself and his own head, and he can’t even do _that_ without fucking it up.

“Well, uh, in terms of _paper_ letters,” says Simmons, “digital messages largely dominate most of modern communication, and physical paper letters are only shipped for inter-planetary travel where digital messages have to travel in offline hardware through space that might interfere with delicate messa—”

“I just said Caboose prints regular digital letters,” says Grif. “I’m saying, why don’t I see anyone in Red Army getting those kinda letters? Don’t you think that’s odd? C’mon, don’t you wanna send your love to Sarge?”

“No!” yelps Simmons.

“Not even a little bit?”

“--What, I mean, we were stationed with him for five years, so, I dunno, maybe a postcard or--it would be okay, to check in—”

“Aww, you miss him,” says Grif.

They both pause.

“You miss kissing his ass,” amends Grif.

“I do not! I—” Simmons groans. ”Look, only a _little_ , like an infinitesimally small—”

“I’m just saying,” says Grif. “We should check that out, send some letters to good ol’ Blood Gulch—”

“Aren’t we getting distracted from the issue that Caboose didn’t really pay us?!”

“We’ll get to it,” says Grif. “Come on, don’t you wanna find out?”

“As if you’d do the legwork to find out,” says Simmons.

“Of course not,” says Grif. “You’re definitely going to find it out for me.”

“ _Hell_ no,” says Simmons. “I won’t fall for that shit again.”

 

* * *

 

Grif doesn’t bring it up again, but the next day a group of Reds are complaining loudly over a shared cigarette pack about how they’d never heard of Blood Gulch and it wasn’t fair for their CO to order them to--and then Simmons didn’t hear the rest. Then and _only then_ does Simmons remember that Kaikana Grif is still in Blood Gulch with Sarge and Lopez, and Simmons groans very loudly for a minute straight, because now Simmons _has_ to fall for that shit again.

 

* * *

 

 

Simmons shares almost all his shifts with Sissy, but Sissy, for the most part, avoids him in favor of meticulously tracking the “Blue Menace.” Simmons knows that his best bet for getting answers is from (1) someone he actually knows, (2) someone who can’t escape him for several hours, in case he fucks it up somehow, which he probably will, and (3) someone who is so _fucking_ stupid that Simmons won’t feel stage fright pressure and resultingly fuck up.

Therefore: Sissy.

In  times like this, Simmons hates how easily he cracks under pressure, and he tries to remember all the great military leaders who’d never cracked under pressure before _ever_ , even tries to envision himself as some Great Military Hero Dude who is, somehow, Cool and Respected and ( _most_ importantly) Invulnerable. But by the time his shift comes around, Simmons is itching for lunch. Sissy is always a prat. Sissy is fucking nuts, with delusions of grandeur, and looks at Simmons like he’s barely worth the dog shit on his boots. Can’t he put this to another day, right? Or he can ask someone else? _Is_ there anyone else to ask?

Simmons stews in stress for four hours. Hitting the mess hall and then the bathroom would have made this easier. He should have done that before his shift, actually, just to psyche himself up for this conversation. He almost wants to smack himself, but then Sissy would really think he’s nuts, so instead he just imagines an internal verbal smackdown: _The hell are you worried about? What’s the worst Sissy could say? What’s the worst that could happen? Why’s he so hellbent on not fucking up something that he can’t fuck up?_

On the fifth and last hour of their shift, he thinks that maybe, just maybe, he’s ready. He’s rehearsed what he’s going to say down to the letter, and imagined a minimum of seven different responses from Sissy, all with according responses. He opens his mouth and—

“If I was going to sleep my way to the top,” Sissy says suddenly, “I wouldn’t have picked the fatass.”

There’s a silence.

“What?” Simmons says, faintly.

“I’m just saying,” Sissy says, as if remarking on the weather. “Like, for one, he’s not gonna give you a promotion. And even if he did, nobody’d respect you for it. You know that, right?”

The earth is tilting. "What?" Simmons says again, or at least he thinks he does.

Sissy snickers. Actually fucking _laughs_. “What’s with the scandalized voice? You’re not the first person to sleep their way to—”

“ _I-I’m not sleeping with—_!” Simmons lowers his voice and looks over his shoulder and, seeing no one, hisses vehemently: “I’m not sleeping with Grif!”

Sissy gives him a doubtful look, or maybe just a look of disdain. “You don’t need to deny it—”

Simmons wants to grab him by the fucking  _throat_. “I’m not denying anything! I--wait, I am, I’m saying I didn’t sleep with Grif because I _didn’t_! Who told you this?! Why? When?! Why would they think such a thing?! This is completely unwarranted, we were only stationed at the same post before our transfer, you can't--!”

“Then why d’you hang out with him all the time?”

“Where the _fuck_ did this come from?!” Simmons snarls. “Why the hell is this _your_ business, anyway?!"

Sissy puffs out his chest. Simmons wants him  _dead_. “We’re in dire straits, Private,” Sissy declares. “We need strong leadership. A united, unanimous effort from the Red Army--”

“You’re questioning my loyalty because I’m sleeping with Grif? WHICH I'M NOT,” Simmons amends quickly, “I’m definitely not, this is speaking entirely hypothetically—”

“Staff Sergeant Grif isn’t the cause, Private!” says Sissy. “The cause is staying alive against the Blue Menace.”

“The Blue—” Simmons stops and groans. Right, right, Grif being a useless leader against Caboose, of all people. “Who gives a shit about the Blue Menace?! I need names--who's been saying that I'm sleeping with--!?"

“Come on, Private,” says Sissy. “I hear you talk shit about him all the time.”

The earth is tilting again. “So _what_?” snaps Simmons.

“So we think it's odd that you're sleeping with him, but you obviously don’t like him.”

“You don’t know that!”

“Why else would someone talk as much shit about someone as you do?” asks Sissy.

(Because it’s what they _do_? This isn’t a fair question! _Why_ isn’t supposed to be part of the deal!)

Simmons backtracks: "I meant you don't know that I'm sleeping with him, not that I don't--"

“Relax. You don’t have to say anything,” Sissy goes on, as if Simmons hadn't spoken. “None of us like him. We all talk shit about him. What I'm trying to tell you is: it's fine. You agree with us, don't you? That we have to stay alive, that we have to do it together, and that _strong leadership_ is the way we're going to do it?”

 _There's_ _an_  ' _us'_? Simmons wonders, and feels his eyes narrow to slits. A _plurality_ of people who think that Grif's inadequate, and that Grif needs to stop being inadequate or they'll all get Caboosed? A plurality that's _cohesive_?

Simmons's teeth are gritted: "Sorry," he snaps, "but I'm not agreeing with anyone, or taking any offers from anyone, who thinks I'm a fag."

Sissy takes it as the conversation ender that it is: "And I'm saying we have a spot at our table if you want out--if you'd like to stay alive against the Blue Menace--if you’d like to find some fame and glory in this army that isn’t dependent on your… nightly extracurriculars,” says Sissy, in that gently condescending voice. As if Simmons is a poor despicable animal but not quite as despicable as Grif—admittedly a new and revolutionary experience, considering Simmons’s usual position at bottom of the social hierarchy when not in Sarge's presence. As if Simmons would be an idiot not to know when he's being offered a leg up the social ladder, and he should be grateful for the scraps Sissy throws him.

Simmons says nothing.

Sissy shrugs and turns away, obviously thinking it's Simmons's loss. Simmons cradles his gun and tries not to agree.

 

* * *

 

Simmons slams open the door and Grif nearly falls out of his seat. “Can we pay Caboose to assassinate one of our own Reds?” Simmons demands. 

“I'm betting he only takes payment in form of letters from Church,” says Grif.

“And I said that’s not real payment!”

“If you wanna take it up with Caboose and his petting zoo of turrets,” Grif says serenely, “be my guest." He looks over the edge of his magazine. "Geez, what’s up with you?”

“Nothing,” Simmons snaps, and sulks for the rest of the day.


	11. Letter Day, pt. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, Simmons thinks that now would be a good time to retreat. Dinner ends in sixteen minutes, anyway.

Simmons passes a trio of privates walking down the hall. He can feel them watching him all the way down the hall. They probably heard the rumors--rumors that Sissy started, if it could be called “starting a rumor” when the idiot actually believed his own conspiracy theories. He can hear them laughing. He’s trying not to turn around and glare at them, because they always say that stupid shit like “don’t acknowledge the bully and they’ll get bored,” even though that _never_ worked for Simmons ever at any point in his entire life, but--

He spins around at the last second. The privates have disappeared. Nobody is laughing.

 

* * *

 

 

Simmons thinks about trying to correct the rumors. If he told someone no, he’s _not_ sleeping with Grif, then perhaps the word would get around and if he got enough people to believe him, then it wouldn’t matter what Sissy says.

But then he remembers that he doesn’t have any friends, and he can’t just go up to any random soldier he sees and say “Hi, so I’m straight and I’m pretty sure Grif is too, but who really knows and if he wasn’t that’d be okay with me, right, because I’m totally okay with gay people, I promise, and also you should pass that message along so that people don’t think we’re banging,” because he’d die of mortification.

How’re you supposed to fix your own reputation? He’d tried, a few times, particularly in high school. He wasn’t one of those nerds who took pride in being a pasty-faced, acne-ridden, Dungeons-and-Dragons-playing, fanfic-writing little shit. One time he tried purposefully flunking his math class to prove that he wasn’t a nerdling who enjoyed math and numbers and computer science, but his teacher found out that Simmons was still doing his homework for fun and just not turning it in and then she gave him an A-minus because she “understood that he was going through a tough time in his life.” And then Jake Obana, the asshole, found out and laughing him out of the PE locker room, so...

Simmons hated being in high school. He’d figured that he’d escape to college, where nobody knew him and people actually enjoyed their majors; but people liked to drink and party and do stupid shit and that kinda stuff made Simmons feel like he needed to lock himself in his room and organize his calendar just to have something to organize.

So then he decided he’d dress well and wear contacts and nuke his skin with salicylic acid until his acne went away, and if he was going to be a loser with no friends, he would at least _look_ like he wasn’t; but then he never managed to go on any dates with any girls because he’d get nervous and stammer and eventually he just started turning girls down from the start, and then the rumors started about how no straight man would avoid dates like he did...

So he figured he’d escape to the military, but now Simmons is beginning to think that no matter where he goes or how much he pretends, it won't be enough. People look at him and they just... know.

 

* * *

 

He’s reaching the point where he’s becoming bored with purging. At some point, he’d started throwing up dinner every night; and when you’re spending every night eating a little more than you should have and then feeling so nauseous that you _have_ to throw it back up, it becomes irritating, and tiring, and a chore. He should probably stop it, then, if it’s becoming so tiring. Yeah, he’ll stop.

...Well, he’ll stop tomorrow.

 

* * *

 

When tomorrow comes, Grif is outside the back of the garage, sitting in a Warthog and fiddling with a radio with one hand. The other hand is dangling a cigarette, which Simmons promptly swipes and steps on. Grif’s look is unamused. “Y’know how much those cost around here?” Grif asks.

He actually sounds irritated, which isn’t Grif’s job. It’s Sarge’s job to come up with something stupid, Donut’s job to do something stupid, Simmons’s job to get irritated with the something stupid, and Grif’s job to mock the shit out of the something stupid.

Simmons’s tactic of “ignore the uncomfortable thing until it goes away” hasn’t failed him yet, except when it has, multiple times in numerous situations. Okay, whatever. “How much does it cost to replace your lungs again?” he retorts.

Grif doesn’t say anything. Instead, he goes back to fiddling with the radio. Yeah, Simmons thinks that now would be a good time to retreat. Dinner ends in sixteen minutes, anyway.

“Well, don’t let them know you stole their jeep,” Simmons says, and turns—

“Did you know Blood Gulch isn’t even on the map?”

“Uhh,” says Simmons. “It’s kind of a small place, that’s for sure…”

“No, I mean that it’s not in any of the files at all,” says Grif. “And could you sit down? You’re making me nervous.”

Simmons isn’t entirely sure he wants to get in a car with Grif right now. Something about it sends alarms ringing. He stays outside the driver’s side door instead. Grif continues, “Like, I asked some other guy about Blood Gulch, and he was like, oh, that place you guys came from? And I was like yeah that place, I wanna look it up, and he was like okay here it is, and he pointed to a map thing. And I was like what the hell is this, I don’t need a map, I meant like, records ‘n shit, documents, Command orders going in and out, and he was like uhhh well we can look it up, so we typed it into the database, and there was nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing,” says Grif.

Simmons chews on that for a while. Somehow he’s not surprised, considering how _odd_ the canyon placement was, and Tucker’s whole conspiracy thing with “Red and Blue are the same!” and Tex, and Wyoming, and the fact that Command was somehow capable of running a war but incapable of giving any orders that were actually worth shit--so the pieces add up, yeah, but that means that everything they did in the canyon was...

“Well, that’s weird,” says Simmons, and leaves it at that.

“Yeah, it’s whatever,” says Grif. “I didn’t really wanna send anyone in the canyon anything. I’d rather see people in person ‘cause, y’know, if I send a letter, I’d have to actually say something worth sending a letter for, y’know what I mean? Can’t just talk story.”

“What’s a ‘talk story’?”

“Never mind,” says Grif, without a trace of humor.

Simmons hesitates. “Then you’d have to put up with Sis--uh, _people’s_ nonsense in person, though.”

“But then at least I can yell at people about their nonsense in person,” says Grif darkly. “And then they won’t listen to me, and it’ll all be for nothing, and we’ll end up talking about nothing. Just the way I like it.”

“Lazy,” says Simmons.

“Talking about nothing is a ton of work,” says Grif.

There’s a pause.

“Well,” says Simmons, “at least we have… this thing.” He holds up the Caboose’s letter. “Have we figured out what we’re doing with this, anyway?”

“I tried to give it back. He says he doesn’t want it,” says Grif. (Right--Grif was getting shit done while Simmons twiddled his thumbs and spun his wheels in the mud.) “He says he reads them when he’s sad, so we should save it for a day when we’re sad.”

“Wow, yeah, I’m super sad,” says Simmons flatly, “look at me, crying sad emo tears and writing in my diary.”

“Yeah, but you actually have a diary.”

“I do not!”

“Whatever you say. Give me that,” says Grif, and swipes the letter.

“Why, are we sad?”

“We’re Red Team, and intercepting important Blue Team communication. Why, you see anything better to do?”

“Ugh,” says Simmons. “Well, alright, but--no, don’t open it like that, you’re going to rip it!”

“Okay, fine, you do it!”

Simmons takes the next three minutes to carefully open the sealed paper letter. “This way you can _put it back_ , idiot,” he says, while Grif rolls his eyes and complains about Simmons being neurotic and uptight. But Simmons does get the letter open, _entirely undamaged, thanks_ , and pulls out the first page. “It’s from... Church,” says Simmons with surprise.

“Didn’t Church hate that guy? Caboose, I mean.”

“Bet you Church sent him a bunch of mission files by mistake,” says Simmons.

“Bet you it’s just the words ‘fuck off’ written in all caps,” says Grif.

Simmons leans over the car door so they can stick their heads together as Simmons reads aloud:

> _“For the last time, I don’t fucking CARE, okay, Caboose? I didn’t—”_

“Ha!” says Grif. “It’s not a mission file by mistake after all.”

> “ _—I didn’t get my ass transferred to the middle of no-fucking-where with no-fucking-body so I have to put up with more idiots. So, like I said before—and I really fucking hope your reading comprehension is good enough to get this through your thick skull—I’ll keep this fucking BRIEF to get this over with, because like I said, every moment I have to talk to you is another moment of my life wasted—”_

“Told you he was only going to tell Caboose to fuck off,” says Grif. “Church hates Caboose. Everybody knows that.”

Simmons dumps the contents of the envelope on the ground. A wad of twenty pages hits the floor. “So uh, how many pages, exactly,” Simmons says, “does it take to ignore someone you hate?”

“Holy shit,” Grif breathes.

Half an hour later, Simmons is still reading:

> “ _—and ANOTHER fucking thing—who the FUCK put this bigass hole in my wall? Yeah, MY wall, because if they’re going to shove me in this base all by myself, then let’s all agree this base is fucking mine, which includes this fucking wall, which is a beautiful fucking wall which does a great job of walling, except there’s A HUGE FUCKING HOLE IN IT. ANY ASSHOLE COULD JUST COME BY AND WALK THROUGH MY WALL WHICH DEFINITIVELY DEFEATS THE POINT OF WALLING. WHAT’S THE FUCKING POINT OF HAVING A WALL IF THE WALL DOESN’T WALL ANYTHING IN OR OUT??? And for fuck’s sake, where did the hole come from????? Of all the stupid shit Command’s done over the years, Caboose, this one is REALLY grinding my gears—like, if Command isn’t going to send me the materials to repair it, can’t Command at least tell me how it happened? Was it some sort of special wall-crushing aliens that leave invisible anti-repairs residue that prevents—”_

—the twenty-page-count does not include the additional enclosed selfies of a disgruntled Church pointing with extreme disgruntlement at aforementioned wall hole, and a smattering of other even _more_ disgruntled selfies with various architectural decisions Church chose to have a disgruntlement with, usually with red circles drawn in to indicate what _exactly_ Caboose should share Church’s disgruntlement about—

> “— _but anyway, don’t bother to write back. But also, if you post the letter to this address directly, then it doesn’t have to go through that piece of shit Command, it isn’t likely to get lost, and it travels a fuckload faster, dumbass, so for once in your life, do the smart thing and just post it directly here next time. Signed, Leonard Church.”_

Simmons folds up the letter. Grif looks practically in awe.

“So. Uh,” says Simmons. “Who’s going to tell Church that he’s a big Blue baby who misses Caboose?”

They look at each other. “Not it,” they say together.

They agree that Caboose’s payment is more than worth it. Simmons scans the letter to his helmet hard drive and Grif pockets the letter for future blackmail, in the unfortunate incident that they ever getting dragged into Church’s girlfriend/Freelancer/Blue Team drama again. But mostly for entertainment, honestly, because what were the odds of _that_ happening?


	12. Oh No

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If approached by a large dangerous mammal, shriek like a little girl and bolt.

Just so we’re all clear—so we’re all on the same page about this—so none of us have the wrong ideas about anything: Simmons does not like Grif.

Fuck off with that dubious look. Yes, really.

Yes, fucking _really_ , okay?

People just rub raw on Simmons’s skin like sandpaper, running from mild but constant abrasion to tiny gouges that feel miles wide. Grif, on the other hand, gets under Simmons’s skin like barbs, even when he’s doing nothing at all— _especially_ when he’s doing nothing at all. He sits there like a fat, out-of-shape weight holding Simmons in place. Every moment with Grif is a lesson in lowering standards and expecting not just nothing, but _less_ than nothing—an endless self-sabotaging tirade against success that Simmons is certain takes more energy to keep up than actually doing the work. He never worries about anything because he refuses to care, and he never cracks under pressure because he’s never accepted any stakes.

It pisses Simmons off every day of his life. It should be _illegal_ to think that way. In the army, it _is_ illegal. (Well—kind of.) And yet here Grif is, by some sadistic design of duality, all up in Simmons’s business, which only makes Simmons resent him more for all the reasons stated above, and absolutely no other reasons that Simmons avoids thinking about or thinking too closely about, because Simmons is a completely logical and rational human being who is the pinnacle of good judgment.

QED: Spending a shitload of time with someone because you don’t have any other options isn’t the same thing as liking someone. It isn’t even the same thing as respecting them. It’s just a matter of—

“It’s too early for drinking yourself sick!” Grif calls through the door. “And hurry up, I gotta piss!”

Simmons, on this fine afternoon, has thus far: failed to be promoted; failed to curry any favor with anyone at Rat’s Nest; screwed however-many-years of pseudo-sobriety from purging; failed to establish human contact with literally anyone except Grif; re-established his reputation as an outcast; re-established his reputation as a homo; has been in zero battles and accomplished zero things to write home about (metaphorically speaking); failed to even help Grif contact his sister; failed to say literally anything of use to Grif after he found out he couldn't contact his sister; and on top of all that, has gotten himself wrapped up in a traitorous backdoor dealing with _Caboose_ to feed Caboose’s turrets with Red ammunition. In sum, nothing has happened, and because Red Army isn’t doing anything at Rat’s Nest at all, nothing is _going_ to happen.

But who’s thinking about that? Who even gives a _shit_ about that? Not Simmons. Nope, no sir, not he.

See, on do-nothing afternoons like these, Simmons likes to build up a nice haze as he empties the contents of his stomach into the toilet behind the armory. His stomach is already half empty, he’s mildly dehydrated, he was thinking more about old science textbooks and what they had to say about the degradation and expansion of food according to macronutrient content—

Grif bangs on the door again. “Seriously!”

—but Simmons’s special superpower is that no matter what situation he’s in, no matter what he was doing or thinking about, no matter who he’s with or _not_ with, Simmons is always, always equipped with a great mental tape reel that’s ready to go from zero to meltdown. It goes something like:

_YOU FUCKED UP YOU FUCKED UP AND THE WORLD IS ENDING AND IT’S ALL YOUR FAULT BECAUSE YOU FUCKED UP YOU FUCKED UP AND THE WORLD IS—_

Change the tenses to _YOU’RE GOING TO FUCK UP_ in the event of the world ending not having happened _yet_. Insert specifics to any situation as necessary! A certainty of impending injury and death with unlimited versatility! Adapts to every and all unjustified fears and deep-seated complexes! One time purchase, lifetime warranty! You’ll never be able to uninstall!

“And dude, if you have enough booze to throw up, sell me some next time!” Grif’s voice says.

Here’s another clarification: in all the years that Simmons has kept up his—habit, or whatever—in all those years through junior high, through high school, through the years of college he made it through—nobody has ever interrupted him in the middle of throwing up. Or people _have_ , sure, but it never mattered. When some stranger comes by, they’d knock, he wouldn’t answer, they’d assume he was taking the longest piss in history, leave, and it’d be done with! Generally speaking, strangers don’t question why someone else is throwing up. It could be anything from the flu to birth control. Not that Simmons takes birth control but—

“Dude, what’s happening in there?” Grif’s voice goes on. “I don’t wanna walk all the way to the main building just to take a leak! 

 _There is no contingency for this situation_.

Except that Simmons _always_ has a contingency. If he drops something in a crowded place, pick it up quickly and pretend it didn’t happen. If a CO gives him orders, don’t think and insert compliments when available. If in combat, don’t think and insert compliments when available. If approached by a large dangerous mammal, shriek like a little girl and bolt. If a girl approaches, _avoid eye contact and back away slowly_.

So—what, if someone _did_ have the balls to insist on interrupting, it’d _have_ to have been his parents, right? In a house where you also have a right to live in, with someone you know and love, is the only place someone could insist on asking what’s wrong—but then he can claim food poisoning, or—headache, whatever; he could probably have told his mother he was sticking his fingers down his throat to throw up and she’d have nodded and said “Well as long as it’s not my toothbrush”—see, because, these kinds of things happened with people you had _history_ with, some sort of… meaningful relation to—

Grif says, “Between the choice of using my legs and using the ladies room, I’ll use the ladies room. Don’t make me use the ladies room!”

—not this random douchebag with a shit sense of humor who got shunted into Blood Gulch with him—not _Grif_ , of all fucking people!

“Okay, _okay_ , fine, using the ladies room,” says Grif. “See what you made me do?”

Simmons doesn’t move. He tracks the ladies door opening and closing, Grif banging around and muttering about why ladies bathrooms were always cleaner--ugh, Grif didn’t flush _again_ , he always fucking did that back at Blood Gulch, too. Grif bangs on the men’s door again. “Seriously, sell me that booze next time!” he says, and then Simmons doesn’t hear anything else.

He listens some more.

He listens harder.

Nothing.

He makes himself breathe a sigh of relief, because that’s what you’re supposed to do when you’ve just avoided a nightmare so awful that you avoided even thinking about it, and he feels all the blood rush to his head. Ah, shit, he forgot to breathe again. He’s probably shaking, too.

Then he remembers he hasn’t gotten it all up yet, steadies himself, and cleans off his fingers. He shakes his head and tries to forget about it. He doesn’t deserve to have gotten away with it, but he has, so there’s nobody to stop him from taking it for granted. He can’t believe this. Too good to be true, of course, but true nonetheless.

 

* * *

 

 

Four hours later, Grif taps Simmons on the shoulder and says, “So, uh, why were you throwing up earlier?” 

Simmons shrieks like a little girl and bolts.


	13. Your WHAT

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "What kind of racism is this?"

“Seriously, Simmons,” says Grif, “are you sick or something?”

Simmons shrieks and b—

“Calm down, Jesus H Christ!” Grif says. “Why’re you so twitchy today?”

_“Twitchy?” Simmons says. “Not me. I’m completely calm and rational and I will go on with my day after a smooth and inconspicuous conversational transition that diverts atten—”_

No, sorry, what really happened was:

“T-t-t-t-twit-tchy?” Simmons says, twitchily. His voice cracks four times and hits three different octaves. “I-I-I’m n-not, not _twitch_ —”

“Yes, you, twitchy. I thought you didn’t drink?”

Yes, drinking! Of course, a perfectly acceptable and manly reason to be throwing up. “Of course I do!” Simmons says automatically.

“Since when?”

“Since I, uh…”

“So you don’t drink. So what’s—” Grif’s helmet snaps around and he suddenly yanks it off. His eyes are wide. “Oh my god. Simmons.”

Simmons’s head is screaming HE KNOWS HE KNOWS HE—

“You accidentally swallowed, didn’t you,” says Grif.

“I—” Simmons doesn’t know what— “I—what? Swallowed? Swallowed what?”

“Swallowed your boyfriend’s cum,” says Grif.

“My WHAT,” says Simmons.

“Yeah, the guy you’ve been shacking up wi—”

“No! I—!” Why does everyone think he’s having copious amounts of sex with men?! “I don’t have a _boyfriend_ , Grif, I already said—”

“But you’re definitely having sex—”

“ _No_!”

“Oh my _god_ , you’re supposed to take credit for sex you’re not having if other people assume you’re having sex!”

“Not if you’re going to assume it’s with a _guy_!” Simmons cries.

“What else am I supposed to think?” says Grif, except that he has that stupid shit-eating goblin grin that usually precedes something like _Yeah Sarge I didn't see any tank_. “There’s like, _two_ ladies at this outpost, both of them are Blues, you haven’t choked under pressure during the ammo trades, you’re never around after dinner, you’re almost _chill_ some mornings—”

“That doesn’t mean I’m having sex—”

“Then why the hell are you acting so—”

“I just felt sick!” Simmons says desperately.

Which might not have been the thing to say, because now Grif looks bewildered. “What’re you talking about?”

“Wait—what’re _you_ talking about? Wait,” says Simmons, “never mind, this conversation is stupid, so I’m leaving. What a shame!”

“No, no no no no you don’t,” says Grif, “come on, I know something’s…” He snaps his fingers. “I got it! You’re _pregnant_!”

“Grif I swear to GOD—”

“Well if Tucker can do it, so can you, right?”

“Uh, _no_? Because I’m don’t have a laser sword and an Sangheili prophecy?”

“I dunno, Simmons,” Grif says, “I figured you’d be jumping at the opportunity to out-do a Blue…”

“Sorry, I think that’s physically impossible!” Simmons says with false cheer. “Okay, well, gotta go—”

“Okay, then it’s something about the new base, right?” Grif continues. “So it’s either a person or a place…”

“You’re right! It’s the place! It gives me the creeps!”

“Every time you say something in your nervous voice, I believe you less, you know,” Grif says. “You’re not drinking, you’re not pregnant… you’re sick? Allergies from the new base?”

“ _That’s what I said the first time._ ”

“That’s it!” Grif cries, snapping his fingers. “It’s that Sissy guy!”

“ _GRIF_ —”

“Yeah, I heard hatefucking’s the new trend nowadays? People going around drawing little spades around their names instead of hearts?”

“Grif I swear to _god_ —”

“Actually, nah, it’s all of them,” says Grif, grinning gleefully without any pretense at a straight face, and ticks off his fingers: “So, so far, you’re throwing up because you accidentally swallowed, but you also have morning sickness because you’re pregnant with his kid, but you’re _also_ drinking like a lush because he introduced you to his stash of vodka, which is bad for the kid, you irresponsible parent, _and_ you’re sick because the pollen at Rat’s Nest—”

Simmons puts his head in his hands.

“—therefore,” Grif concludes, “you’re dying.”

“That doesn’t even make any sense,” Simmons moans.

“Yeah, it does. See, the sheer mortification of hatefucking a guy as nasty as Sissy causes your cyborg heart-replacement to short-circuit, which is already doing double-time to support you and the kid you’re killing with all your vodka-drinking, which induces more shame and mortification because now you’re a shittier dad than Tucker who’s a filthy Blue which means you’re letting down Red Team, which weakens your immune system just enough for the parasites in the pollen to take hold and—”

“I was just throwing up!”

“Yeah, because you’re dy—”

“I did it on purpose!” Simmons snaps, before he can think.

“You—” Grif stops. “Really?”

“Yes, _really_. God!” Simmons says. “Now will you give it a fucking rest?!”

Grif blinks rapidly, like he’s trying to make himself remember the original point of this conversation. “Uh, what? Why would you make yourself throw up?”

“It’s just a thing that happens sometimes.”

There’s a pause.

There’s a really long pause.

“…What?” says Grif.

Back up.

Simmons’s mother used to describe a very old Earth cartoon when talking about her screaming matches with his father. The coyote would be chasing the bird and the bird would somehow trick the coyote into running straight off the edge of a cliff, and the coyote would be so hellbent on catching this fucking bird that he’d keep running through empty air, and the audience would laugh because it was _so_ apparent to everyone but the coyote that he wasn’t dead yet, but he’d already killed himself, ha ha ha ha ha. Then the coyote would look down, and see all the empty space underneath him, waiting to kill him, and _only then_ , only _after_ he’d realized how badly he’d fucked up, would he begin to fall.

She said that his father was the coyote, but he never looked down. Never bothered to check how deep the shit he was getting into went or how rude or unhinged he sounded as long as he could _win the fucking argument_ , so long as he could just be a little more right than her; so long as he just ran fast enough and hard enough and never looked down, then he could run on empty air forever. “But he wouldn’t do it if he didn’t love me,” she’d say. “He wouldn’t do it if he didn’t know I love him. I’m the only person in the whole world who’ll put up with his insanities.” Then Mrs Simmons would laugh at her husband. Little Dickie Simmons would laugh with her, feeling more than knowing that it was his only option if he didn’t want his mother to laugh at him, too.

So what comes out of his mouth is:

“I’m pretty sure you heard me the first time,” says Simmons.

“Uh, sure, I heard you,” says Grif. “I’m just like… ‘what,’ because what I _mean_ is ‘what the hell’?”

“Oh, good. God forbid your laziness reach your ears.”

“Give me credit, I’m trying, but I don’t have cyborg ears to turn off like you and—wait, what the hell are we talking about?” says Grif. “Simmons, go back to the—to the—the what we were talking about. That’s _weird."_

“What, my ears are weird? What kind of racism is this?”

“No, the—thing, the one we were _just_ talking about, that’s the weird thing—”

“ _You’re_ the one who said I have a boyfriend!” Simmons protests. “Now you’re homophobic, too?”

“ _Simmons_ ,” says Grif, to exasperated to dodge, “the _thing_ , about _you_ —” and there’s a moment where Grif verbally trips over himself before he spits it out: “about you throwing up.”

“What about it?”

Grif stares at him. Blankly, mostly, like he doesn’t know where to start. Finally, at length: “Isn’t that weird?”

Simmons crosses his arms. “I dunno, maybe a little. I don’t think it’s weird. Not _that_ weird. It’s just how it is. What do you care?”

“I…” Grif trails away. “Can I not talk to a helmet for a second?”

The look Simmons gives him the moment the helmet comes off is unimpressed.

“Holy shit,” says Grif. “You’re not kidding.”

“Why would I be kidding?” Simmons asks.

“Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhh,” says Grif. “Hang on.”

And that’s when Grif up and walks away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey so remember that author's note from the first chapter that was like two months ago? all that stuff is for real, plus like, a boatload of really drawn-out hurt/comfort because i love that shit. blueballs forever in the emotional department lolol. so, uh, i guess what i mean to say is... read with caution and take care of yallselves?
> 
> also since im on my soapbox my tumblr is hylian-reptile come yell at me about rvb
> 
> bye and love you all


	14. Leaky Boat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Uh, wow. Impressive."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah, the formatting really is this way. and, like, no hard feelings if you wanna just like...... skip it...... lol.........

Sometimes, Simmons's head has a bad time.

See, Simmons shouldn’t have done that. Admitting to throwing up on intentionally was the _actually worst_ thing that Simmons could have possibly done in that situation. He had a free out. He could have taken it. Grif hadn’t been suspicious at all, because nobody ever is. Why’d he do that? Why’d he do that? In all the years that Simmons has been throwing up, nobody but Grif has ever interrupted him, either in the middle, or the after, or the beginning, or the in-between of throwing-up, because who wants to _deal_ with that? And he never worried—or he did, actually, wildly, obsessively, thought about it all the time, like wanting to watch a show he’d already finished, or itching to solve a series of math problems; he hated when his fingers smelled and his voice went to shit and his eyes were puffy and his cheeks swelled and he broke his braces every fucking month in high school or when his braces rubbed against his fingers and broke the skin; Russel’s sign has _nothing_ on the damage a hunk of metal superglued to his teeth can do to your knuckles, your nails, the webbing in between the ring and pinky fingers. So why’d he do that? Why’d he do that? He knew, sometimes--when he was really feeling up to picking apart the parts of himself that were separate from the overthinking and the stressing and the jumping at shadows and paranoia and what was that, Grif? _Leaky-boat self-esteem_ , is what he called it? (How fucking _dare he_ ? Whose business is that? Not _his_ , is it?)--when he was feeling really up to picking apart himself from _all_ of that, he knew that logically speaking, so long as he locked the door, locked it once and then again and the check it _again_ , make sure to touch it twice with your fingers to _make sure_ that it’s _completely locked_ , if you don’t touch it twice it won’t be locked that’s just how logic works sorry but if you _do_ then there’s no need to worry, there’s no need to think that he might ever get caught, HE NEED NEVER TAKE RESPONSIBILITY FOR WHAT’S WRONG WITH HIM, which he can leave peaceably behind closed doors, away from everyone else who will tear it apart and tear _him_ apart for being the way that he is, so long as he has the strength to keep those doors closed with his own willpower and his own willpower alone. To go the distance entirely alone, because that’s what it takes, to keep your shames and wrongs to yourself. Then the only person he has to worry about is himself, and avoidance is the name of the game; he can ignore his own acne, until others don’t; he can ignore his own braces, until others don’t; he can ignore his own awful tin laugh, until others don’t; he can ignore how he sucks shit at keeping a conversation going, until others don’t; he can ignore loneliness, until others don’t; he can ignore his short temper and irritations, until others don’t; he can ignore how pathetic he sounds when he tries, until others don’t; he can ignore how nasty he sounds when he doesn’t try, until until until until, until he could disappear--until he could crawl out of his own skin--he could peel apart all his different parts and remake himself, Simmons one-point-oh, two-point-oh, three-point-oh four-point-five-point-six-seven as many versions as it takes until there’s nothing left of the first, a thorough annihilation of weakness and aberration and vulnerability. But even if he gets away with lying to himself every day of his life, even if _other people_ get away with lying to each other every day of their lives, he’s not quite as stupid as he’d like to be and it’s too easy to know what people aren’t saying and he knows better than anyone that moment is all it takes--just a _slip_ for the rumors to start--hell, Sissy started rumors out of _nothing_ , because Sissy is an actual fucking idiot of proportions that Simmons could never have expected of a schoolyard bully. The slightest sign of weakness and it’s blood in the water, you can’t _undo_ damage like that, you have to be prepared beforehand, _even if, even if in all the years Simmons has been throwing up nobody has ever interrupted him_ . Apparently there are the damages that are not undone, no matter what people say about time healing all wounds, about people forgetting and moving on, about leaving your ghosts and forgetting your exes; no, there are ( _these are_ ) the damages that do not heal but change in you and change you, make you something else just to survive yourself--there is no way out of this but to cease to be as he is now, as if that wasn’t what he wanted to begin with, as if he’s not utterly incapable of doing so; so he locks his wrongness up in his closet, among other shames, all the things he’d never speak of, things he’d never admit to, things he never, ever, ever, wants to talk about, and most _certainly_ does not want to see reflected in other people’s eyes, he thinks he’d rather die than have to look at someone and see them seeing him for who he is. So why’d he do that? Why’d he do that? He didn’t have to tell Grif; Grif didn’t _want_ to be told; he shouldn’t have told Grif. He does everything he _can_ do to keep his secrets close; he has a safeguard for every mistake he’s ever made; he ran the shower when he threw up; he used single-stall bathrooms; he makes sure to drink water before and during eating; he watches the amount of vomit that goes into the toilet, because of the time he threw up so much junk that the toilet clogged at three in the morning and he had to walk to the corner store because he was too young to drive and even if he could have the garage door screamed like a banshee when it opened so he had to crawl out the window in the middle of the cold night chugging water from a milk jug to replace all the fluids he’d just dumped into the toilet until he thought too hard about maybe there were trace calories in the milk jug plastic and then he had to throw it away in a backyard and ran to the corner store with his brain screaming _water sounds divine right now but you threw it away so why don’t you replace all that water with two family-size bags full of chips_ and fuck he’d been so _tired_ he was fifteen and going through four thousand calories a day just by growing to his new awful height of 6’3” (six _fucking feet_ and three inches?) that everyone teased him for and his stomach hurt and his nails hurt and his jaw hurt and he still had to walk back to his house and sneak back through the second floor window and unclog the toilet but they didn’t _have_ plungers at a corner store, you _fucking_ idiot of course they don’t; so he bought a bucket and a soup ladle and one of those long fuzzy things that you’re supposed to use to clean dust off bookshelves and ceiling fans and also two gallons of ice cream and no plastic spoon to make himself walk faster than he’d ever walked in his life all the way home right past the milk jug in the neighbor’s yard because the point-two trace calories were worse than the five-thousand calorie bomb in his bag and he climbed through the window and used the ladle to dig out all the soggy protein bars and honey nut cheerios and spaghetti from its congealed solid paste that had settled (like a slug the size of a human baby) along the floor of the toilet, except for some of the paste was actually recognizable as spaghetti because shit never dissolved fast enough in the stomach to turn to mush, which meant that if _those_ noodles didn’t dissolve, then _all_ of them shouldn’t have dissolved, but he’d definitely eaten more than what he’d thrown up so where was the rest of it?? where was the rest?? the rest??? the _rest_ ???????? how much was he getting up what was the damage how could he know his heart was pumping electrolytes he didn’t have his hands were steady but he was sweating now, hot then cold, and he was sure that this was how he was going to die, covered in sweat and teenaged boy hormones and smelling like the vomit he was shoveling into a fucking bucket because he’s honest-to-god threw up so much food that the poor toilet wouldn’t flush it all away—but he didn’t die, because he had two family-size bags of chips on the counter, so he cleared out the food and jammed the feather duster in the pipes until they came clear. And then, tired and shaking and dehydrated, he dragged himself to the kitchen, where he downed six cups of water in a minute to replace all the fluids he didn’t have to begin with and then threw up anyway, opened the freezer, and decided he’d drink another two glasses of water, not because he needs water to survive but because he’s going to need it to get all these fucking chips back up and maybe the spaghetti from the last go that was still hanging out in his stomach if he was lucky. Nowadays, he’s been at this shit _forever_ , you know, all through high school and college and now at Rat’s Nest, and he learns from his mistakes--well, sometimes, anyway, or at least marginally more than not at all, and only when he has the energy to really give it his all. The secret is that an eating disorder is no spiraling tragedy, but a long and grueling marathon, one that intends to kill with mind-numbing, esteem-crushing exhaustion as you run towards a recovery always just out of reach; he’s so tired, he just wants to stop thinking about it, he wants to stop thinking about the food at the dining hall and he wants to stop thinking about the options and where Grif keeps his snacks and he wants to stop thinking about other people and what they think about how he’s eating and what they see when he walks and talks and breathes and what they might hear if they pass the bathroom at the wrong time and he wants it to end even though he hasn’t even started again, throwing up every other night is just the _beginning_ , but he already wants it to be over, he wants Rat’s Nest to be over, he’s only had to interact with ONE PERSON at this entire fucking base and it’s been fucking trials and tribulations up and down, he’s sitting in place and wanting to run but when he stands he’s exhausted and wants to sit, he doesn’t want to be in this base this base THIS _FUCKING BASE_ , crawling up and down the walls with eyes and laughing and opinions and options and mirrors and fucking nothing better to do than waste the remains of his military career and he doesn’t know how anyone could possibly stand to live in this hellhole, except the moments of clarity when he’s just thrown up and everything’s quiet. His head will hurt, and he’ll be exhausted and tired, and his throat will be sore and abused, but it’ll be quiet, and he can rest. And then he’ll go talk to Grif, and Grif is--he doesn’t know what Grif is, but it’s all right. But he can’t anymore, he’s ruined it, _why the fuck did he do that?_ How could he _possibly_ have fucked up _so bad_ that he just--what, blurts it out like that? _Yeah, Grif, I throw up sometimes_ \--what? What? What the _fuck_ ? What was he thinking? No, no no no it’s not weird unless he admits it’s, remember, run run keep running and if he doesn’t look down then he’ll never fall, right? It’s—” _Isn’t that weird_ ?” How would he know?! How is anyone supposed to know what’s weird and what’s not?! He’s been at this for years, most of his adult life, scouting out the single-stalled bathrooms and drinking water between each bite and disappearing after each meal is business as usual, he’s never lived any other way except when he had to at Blood Gulch, and even then he’s not entirely sure who that person was, like Simmons was just playing at being someone else who eats like other people for five whole fucking years because Sarge wouldn’t have it any other way--no, Grif doesn’t know what’s normal, Grif doesn’t know what’s weird, as if Grif scarfing down two packs of Oreos every day is _normal_ ? As if Grif whisking away all the food after every supply drop is _normal_ ? Nobody talks about it! He’s never talked about it! It’s just him and his closet full of bad memories and his mirror full of wrongs and a long, long track record of failed dates and friendships because nobody talks about anything, and frankly, SIMMONS DOESN’T WANT TO, HE SWEARS HE DIDN’T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT, BECAUSE HE’S NOT SUPPOSED TO WANT TO. Because here’s how the story’s supposed to go: a straight white female athlete is introduced to calorie counting; she’s broken up with her boyfriend and she’s looking for a way to feel okay; within the year, she’s lost forty pounds and is cold inside and out, head full of fog and nails brittle and blue; she’s dainty and beautiful and envied in her frozen death, there is nothing more spectacular for the voyeurs than a girl dying in pain; her parents notice; her friends notice; she doesn’t want them to notice, she wants to be left alone with her spreadsheets full of numbers and five thousand facts about nutrition and the weight of the growing knowledge that she’s abnormal, that she’s somehow gone wrong, that something’s broken on the inside and it’ll never be repaired the same. Nevertheless, a friend in her fifth period class hands her a Vitamin Water Zero and says she’s concerned, that she’s been there, that she knows what it’s like and she’ll be here when she thinks she wants to get better, without saying that “getting better” is a crock of nonsense and theory about substances the DSM doesn’t fully understand, without saying that talking about it miles, miles, _leagues_ away from understanding--but for at least a moment, the girl thinks she’s not the only one who’s gone a little crazy. Here’s how Grif and Simmons’s story goes: _he woke up and brushed his teeth; he put on his clothes; he walked outside his room; he stared at the Blues for five hours with Grif; Sarge yelled about nothing; Simmons and Grif argued about nothing; Grif tried to leave for the Vegas quadrant—”C’mon, Simmons, let’s go”—”We can’t”—”Why not?”—”You haven’t taken your turn for ‘I, Spy,’ yet, asshole,” and Simmons’s voice is so dry that Grif cracks up—_ but he doesn’t know what he expected from Grif. He doesn’t know how he thought Grif would react. He doesn’t know what he’d wanted just then, and if he does, he’s not saying, because _he swears he didn’t want to talk about it_ because he’s not supposed to want to, because there’s nothing to talk about, et cetera et cetera. But now _that’s_ over, isn’t it? He screwed the pooch, it’s over, nothing else to do, thank god for that, because if it’s over that means he doesn’t have to think about it, if he just never talks to Grif again then loneliness would be better than--than--than whatever it is that he thinks Grif will think--he doesn’t really _know_ , okay?! But he let it slip, god knows why he did that, what kind of desperate ploy that was, so it’s over, he’s on his own, Red Team is officially gone, he’s stuck here at Rat’s Nest forever, just he himself and the toilet behind the armory and the moments where he doesn’t have to think and every other moment where he can’t stop thinking and if that’s the case then he wonders if he can stock-pile food from multiple meals at the mess hall in order to eat enough to get a _proper fucking binge for once_ because oh that sounds like a good idea, since he has all this _free time_ from having _no friends_ and _no hobbies_ and _nothing to do_ , no point to even _being here_ , for god’s sake, he might as well up his game, get back to the good old days where he hated every time he threw up but he hated the time he spent throwing up a little less than he hated every moment he was awake, because those days had to be better than right now, _anything anywhere_ would be better than—

“Shift’s over,” says Sissy. “Heading to lunch?”

“Yep,” says Simmons.

 

* * *

 

 

Lunch is a good idea up until Sissy sits down in front of Grif. 

“Oh, uh,” says Simmons, “I think I have something conveniently happening right now that I have to do, immediately, urgently, and not because I don’t want to—”

“C’mon, man, you said you’d join me,” says Sissy, in an eerily even tone.

Grif takes one look between Sissy and Simmons and dumps his fork on his plate. “Not that I also don’t enjoy your sterling company,” says Grif, “but I _also_ have conveniently remembered—”

“Isn’t that a bit rude, Sergeant Grif, sir?” says Sissy.

“Nah,” says Grif. “I’m a higher rank, so I can do whatever I want. But if I wasn’t your CO, then it wouldn’t be a _bit_ rude; it’d just be fuckin’ rude.”

Sissy forcibly pulls Simmons down onto the seat next to him. Grif gives him a look, but Simmons is too busy avoiding looking at Grif. “Yikes,” says Grif.

“Sergeant, sir, I believe I have valuable information on the Blue Menace,” says Sissy.

Simmons gives Sissy a bewildered look, but he looks serious. Except Sissy is always serious, because he can’t tell delusion from reality. “Uh, wow. Impressive,” says Grif, sounding unwowed and unimpressed. “Wanna file a report like everyone else?”

“I thought you’d like to know as soon as possible, sir,” says Sissy. “Considering that he’s wrecked another two of our Warthogs, and the upcoming counterattack.”

“Whoa, counterattack?” Grif asks. “Where? Who? Why?”

“ _Why_?” Sissy demands. “For the Red cause—”

“The Red cause,” Grif scoffs, under his breath.

Christ. Simmons just wanted to take his food and throw it up in peace. He didn’t ask for this.

“ _Sir_ ,” Sissy says. “Considering the casualties that we’ve taken so far, the diminishing food supplies, and our low ammo stores, I do think that many of us, myself and Private Simmons included, believe it’s time for decisive action."

Grif seems oddly delighted by this. “Whoa, really? Yourself _and_ Private Simmons?”

Wow, Simmons does _not_ want to be here. “I mean,” Simmons starts.

“That is to say, many of us, myself included, hope that Private Simmons agrees on this point, regardless of how Private Simmons might feel on other matters,” Sissy says.

Simmons stares at Sissy. Sissy stares back. Simmons looks at Grif instead, but Grif is already staring at him, so he looks away. “Well, from what I know about yesterday’s skirmish that injured two—”

“Three,” Sissy interrupts.

“—three men, and what I know about our inventory and the fact that our next supply isn’t supposed to drop until next week at the earliest, then…” Simmons has an awful feeling he’s walking into a trap even as he says it: “Yeah, we should… do something. I guess? Ca--the new Blue guy is really doing some damage.”

Sissy’s eyes narrow.

“Sir,” Simmons adds. Somehow, it’s not very entertaining when Grif’s eye twitches.

“And you might say that the best course of action in this scenario is to strike back, correct?” Sissy prompts.

“The only other option would be to do nothing, but that’d result in a pseudo-siege... even moreso than we’re already doing,” says Simmons. “So, uh, yes. We should probably fight back, sir. Especially if we don’t want to, uh… let down the Red cause."

Grif groans loudly. To be fair, that sounded stupid to Simmons, too. “Jesus,” Grif mutters. “The _Red cause_.”

“Sir,” Sissy says irritably, “I have valuable intel, but am I to understand that you don’t see sufficient reason to either hear it or take action?”

“Sufficient reason?” Grif says incredulously. “For what? Why? Do we even want their base? What's the point? For what agenda? Who're we even fighting and why? Like, c'mon, dude. Don't you ever wonder why we’re here?”

Sissy frowns. “I don’t understand the question, sir.”

Grif sighs. “Okay, I think it's time for my nap. Or maybe my scheduled slacking," he says, apparently deaf and blind to Sissy’s furious glare. “How about all go back to what we were doing, instead of… whatever this interrogation is.”

“Private Simmons and I are just eating lunch,” says Sissy through gritted teeth.

“Yeah, Private Simmons looks real hungry,” says Grif, nodding at Simmons’s untouched plate.

There’s half a moment where Grif freezes, the only point in the entire conversation where his laid-back nonchalance seems less infuriatingly impenetrable and more frighteningly thin. Simmons knows he’s reading into what Simmons said yesterday, what Simmons is doing now, trying to piece together odd behavior with odd claims. For the first time, being around Grif feels like being shoved through a grater. Simmons looks away from the plate. “I’m just not hungry,” says Simmons.

This is true. He doesn’t feel like eating. He feels like putting food in his stomach and then throwing it back up, which is not the same thing.

“Cool,” says Grif, a little faintly. “Got it. I’m gonna, uh…” He motions vaguely in the direction of somewhere else, and scrams. Simmons barely waits before grabbing his own tray and booking it in another direction.

But Sissy’s hand seizes Simmons’s cyborg forearm in a vice. “I know you’re happy cozying up with your little sugar daddy,” Sissy hisses, “but for god’s sake, you see it just as well as I do. _Convince_ him to do something, or the Red Army loses Rat’s Nest.”

Simmons shakes Sissy off. Right now, he isn’t interested in pretending he gives a damn about the Red Army. Right now, he's hard pressed to give a damn about anything.


	15. Outrageous Liars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Good thing my esteemed and higher-ranking self is here to put your fears to rest."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> slides in at the end of Tuesday but it still counts because it's still Tuesday morning where I am
> 
> fingerguns

Simmons figures out Sissy’s game a moment too late, as per his usual esprit d’escalier: Sissy wants Grif to move his ass, Grif moves zero ass whatsoever, Sissy appeals to Grif’s theoretical fuckbuddy (Simmons) to ask Simmons to convince Grif to move his ass, Simmons tells Sissy to fuck off, Sissy sulks until he comes up with “valuable intel,” Sissy nabs Simmons and talks Simmons into agreeing with his logic in front of Grif in an attempt to manipulate Simmons into inadvertently convincing Grif to move his ass, Simmons is too slow to realize what Sissy is doing and neglects to tell Sissy to fuck off, and Grif still moves zero ass whatsoever.

And now there’s a private Simmons doesn’t recognize running the armory, and Sissy is asking questions.

“Give it a rest,” says New Window Guy. “Didn’t Sergeant Larson say we’re attacking the Blues tomorrow, anyway?”

Simmons shifts uncomfortably from where he’s eavesdropping. There’d been a debriefing about it this morning, and the plan _looked_ tactically sound, and under normal circumstances he’d be thrilled to participate in some stupid ploy for glory, but… He shakes his head. No, no buts. He’s excited. Right? He _is_. He’s itching for his machine gun. Or itching for something, at least.

“Relax. We’ll get a proper fight,” says Window Guy.

“Look at the records one more time,” Sissy says. “I promise, something’s off. It makes sense that the Blues have so much firepower and our armory is always almost empty if...”

“The records check out, Sissel. Signed off by a Sergeant and everything.”

“That Sergeant was Sergeant _Grif_.”

“Shit,” says Sergeant Grif.

Simmons jumps. “Jesus!” he hisses. “Don’t sneak up on me like that!”

Grif’s face is covered by the helmet, but Simmons knows exactly which bemused look he’s giving him. “Why, were you not expecting to find me where I work shifts at exactly this time?”

“Well, I was, but—”

He’d wanted to see Grif, as is the usual custom when Simmons is bored, but he... doesn’t want to see Grif. Not this Grif, anyway. He wants to see the Grif that he’d been talking to _before_ he’d shot off his mouth and said shit he wasn’t supposed to. The Grif he didn’t have to worry about.

But what is he supposed to do about that, hm? _Talk_ to him about it? Actually finish the conversation they were having almost a week ago? Yeah, Simmons would rather die.

“They’re planning some attack on the Blues or something, remember?” says Grif. “So I got swapped out with that dude over there so I can do like, orders and responsibilities and shit.”

“Shit,” says Simmons.

“Don’t worry, I told him not to mess with your color coding system.”

“No, Grif, that means neither of us have an in to the records of what ammo’s been signed in and out,” says Simmons, “which means neither have access to the records that can _put us in jail for treason_. Oh, shit. Oh, shit, oh shit--”

“Wow, that might be a problem,” says Grif.

Simmons stops. “ _Might_ be,” repeats Simmons.

“Potentially.”

“Possibly.”

“A conceivable probability.”

“Everything’s a joke to you,” Simmons mutters.

"Oh!" says Grif, and smacks Simmons in the shoulder to get his attention. "I've got an idea."

"What? What idea?"

"Follow my lead," says Grif.

The person at the armory window is a private in standard red, and is utterly indistinguishable from literally anyone else in this base. He’s talking in low tones to two other people behind him, apparently discussing the placement of a crate, and salutes when Grif approaches. “Sergeant Grif, sir,” he says.

Sissy gives Grif a look that could melt steel.

“Helmets must be on at all times, Private,” Grif says lazily.

Sissy puts his helmet back on like he’s doing Grif a fucking favor.

“And Private… Simmons, right?” says Window Guy, nodding at Simmons. Simmons has half a second to think of as many awful reasons for why this guy Simmons has never seen before would know his name and to despair over the fact that now Simmons will never be able to ask Window Guy’s name without looking like a jackass, before Window Guy says to Grif, “Do you need a weapon change, sir?”

“Nah,” says Grif. “Just checking to see how you’re holding up at your new job ‘n all.”

Window Guy’s confusion is palpable. “Thank you for your… uh, consideration…?”

“No problem,” says Grif. “But since you’ve had the armory to yourself for a day, I thought I’d swing by and see if everything’s been kept in order.”

“We didn’t touch the color coding system, sir,” says Window Guy.

“Cool, cool. Good job or whatever. Simmons and I are gonna take a peek inside anyway.”

Window Guy, somewhat reluctantly, pulls out the small datapad the armory uses to keep track of its inventory.

“Wait a minute,” says Sissy.

"Oh c'mon, Sissel, I just work here," Window Guy mumbles.

“You got a problem, Private?” Grif asks.

“Private Sissel thinks someone has been tampering with the ammo inventory records, sir,” says Window Guy.

“Is that true?” asks Grif.

Sissy says nothing.

“Well,” says Grif, “good thing my esteemed and higher-ranking self is here to put your fears to rest. Myself and Private Simmons, of course.”

“Is Private Simmons authorized to do inspections?” asks Window Guy.

“No, but he loves organization. Seriously, I heard he jacks off to color-coordi—”

“ _Sergeant Grif, sir,_ ” Simmons snaps, “can inspect the armory _by himself_ if he _really_ wants to, which it sounds like he does.”

“Anyway it’s good to have a neutral third-party look at the records, too,” says Grif, handing the datapad off to Simmons. “Right, Simmons?”

Simmons takes the datapad and looks down at the records that he himself replicated, fudged for Grif, and re-encrypted to cover both their asses from being court-martialed over tradimg ammo for Church's emotionally-repressed letter.

“Yes, that is me,” says Simmons. “The most neutral of third-parties, someone who’s never looked at these records, or has any connection to anyone who’s handled the records, or has any stake in the records all checking out.”

“Man, isn’t it convenient that Simmons was just standing there when I happened to walk by,” says Grif.

Window Guy and Sissy exchange a Look. Simmons is reminded of his burning urge to throw Sissy out a window. Simmons opens the file records and pretends to scroll.

The nature of fudging the records is very simple: all ammo that gets checked in is recorded in terms of who, when, and where it came from; all ammo that gets checked out is recorded in terms of who, when, and where it went. It’s the checking-out bit that’s harder, since Simmons doesn’t need to fudge anything coming in, only where and to whom it went. There's only so many places and people to whom ammo can go in a small base like Rat's Nest, after all. Simmons had done his best with what he'd had.

“Well, Private?” Grif says.

“Everything checks out, sir,” says Simmons, because that's what he's supposed to say, so of course it does.

“Yep. Of course it does,” says Grif.

“And where did the last assignment go?” Sissy asks.

Simmons checks the datapad. “Uh, a hundred and twenty magazines to the evening, night, and afternoon patrol shifts.”

“Why on earth would patrol shifts need that many bullets?” Sissy demands.

“Er, yes,” says Window Guy. “We did think that was a bit odd, but, um…”

“Uh, well,” says Simmons. “Everyone knows that the patrol guards always need bullets. ‘Cause what if they’re attacked?”

“They can use the bullets from yesterday,” says Sissy, “because they didn’t _fire_ any of them.”

Window Guy nods. “The Blues haven’t really had a coordinated assault on us in…”

“What if the _Blue Menace_ comes near us?” asks Simmons. "He's not a coordinated assault."

Sissy’s helmet swings around accusingly towards Window Guy. Window Guy groans. “Okay, okay, I get it, he’s a threat…”

“But that doesn’t explain why they needed replacement bullets in the first place,” says Sissy. "The Blue Menace doesn't show up that often."

“Have you never taken a potshot at a bird when you’re bored, Private?” Grif asks.

“A _hundred and twenty_ potshots?”

“Mmm, _really_ bored,” says Grif.

Sissy looks at Window Guy. Window Guy shrugs.

“And the check-out before that?” Sissy asks.

Simmons looks back to the datapad. “Ten explosive rockets to the kitchen staff.”

“What do the kitchen staff need _rockets_ for?” demands Sissy.

“Cooking,” says Simmons.

“Obviously,” says Grif.

“And before that?” Sissy asks, with gritted teeth.

Simmons feels a small, ugly stab of pleasure, watching him squirm. He scrolls down the datapad.

“A shipment of a hundred grenades to Private Biggus Dickus,” says Simmons.

“Private Biggus Dickus,” says Sissy.

“It’s bad form to poke fun at other people’s names,” says Simmons, “Private _Sissy_.”

“Well!” says Grif, before anyone can protest. “Sounds like everything is perfect and totally unsuspicious.”

“Wait—” says Window Guy.

“Okay, see you later! Try not to die tomorrow. And, uh, kill the Blues and try to win the war, all that shit Command says, okay, bye!”

Grif strides out of the armory like he owns the place. Simmons fumbles, dumps the datapad on the window counter, and gets the fuck out of there, half-wishing that Sissy just do them all a favor and get shot and killed tomorrow. Simmons could do it himself, too! Nobody would have to know! Bullets flying, chaos everywhere, he could say the Blues did it...

“Think that threw them off?” asks Grif, when they're out of sight and out of earshot.

“Are you _sure_ I can’t just get Caboose to kill Sissy to be safe?” Simmons mutters.

“The guy’s delusional,” says Grif. “I’d be surprised if anyone believes him.”

“Even if he’s right?”

Grif shrugs. “Oh well.”

“‘ _Oh well_ ’?"

“Hey, I did my bit. We threw him off, did our best. Nothing else for it. Even if they insist, it's still damn hard to accuse a CO. You getting dinner?”

The transition from “Private Douchenozzle” to “life or death” is so fast that Simmons almost doesn’t catch it. Almost doesn’t see Grif’s body language going stilted, like an actor playing a caricature of himself. Mental alarm bells begin flashing. “Uh,” says Simmons.

Grif doesn’t look at him. “Y’know, people going out to the no man’s zone tomorrow, most of us are having some kind of get-together with people they know—talk stuff out—so—”

“No,” says Simmons, before he can think, and leaves before Grif can speak.

 

* * *

 

 

Simmons is washing his hands, cleaning his face, and hacking up the sort of thick, viscous saliva that appears when his throat is unhappy with the number of fingers that have just fucked with its epiglottis. His helmet is in the corner, so he doesn’t know how long it took, but he’d be surprised if anything less than fifty minutes had passed since he shut himself up in this bathroom.

The wildest secret about all this is: for all these years that he spent doing all kinds of crazy shit with what he eats, he’s still not very good at throwing up. On the first day, everything comes up clean. On the second consecutive day of throwing up, he can fool himself into thinking it’s just as easy as the first day. On the third consecutive day, it’ll take a good ten minutes before he can even gag. On the fourth day, he might get up half of what he ate--after an hour of panic, sweat, and choking. On the fifth day, he might as well not even bother.

The fourth days are the worst, of course. An entire hour, bored and disgusted with himself? Throwing up is not _fun_. It’s tedious. It’s _work_. His throat, as semi-replaced by Sarge’s cyborg parts as it is, is still an uncooperative little shit. Sometimes there’s so little liquid in his stomach that everything comes up almost like a solid; it feels like he’s trying to pull a brick up through his throat by a string.

He remembers that back In The Day, the fourth days were always the days where he swore this time, for _real_ , was the _last_ time.

He turns off the tap. Wipes water off his face. Pats at the swelling under his slightly-red eyes. Shakes his hands dry. Picks up his helmet. The HUD tells him that a solid fifty-six minutes have indeed passed. An entire fifty-six minutes of his day he wasted by staring at a fucking toilet, puking his guts out.

He remembers, now, why he wanted to stop, back in junior high and high school and college. But he’s not stupid anymore. He knows better.

He could try, but he’s not going to stop.

There was no point in telling Grif anything.

Simmons pulls on his gloves, puts on his helmet, and checks the bathroom one more time for any splatter. He stretches out his spine, then his legs, which’ll be sore tomorrow from all the strain he put on them today by bending over for so long. Then he leaves.


	16. Hidey Hole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It must be so nice to be with your best friend all the time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so speaking of shitty simtrooper situations

In the morning, Red Team of Rat’s Nest packs up their Warthogs, checks out their weapons and ammo, meets up with their new squads, and sets off to spread hell across Blue Base. There are two COs on site—Sergeants Josephson and Engel—while Sergeant Grif has been left behind to coordinate the remaining soldiers who decided to stay at Red Base.

Simmons has a minor headache from dehydration, but nothing that adrenaline won’t fix, so he chugs a water bottle, gears up, joins his assigned group of Reds who he’s never met before, packs up the Warthog, and settles himself behind the machine gun. The driver pulls out of the hangar and into the field between Red and Blue base, while other Warthogs fan out to other directions.

Today, the Reds are coordinating a genuine, bona fide assault on Blue Base. They’re on a mission to do some cool shit, get noticed for doing the cool shit, and then get rewarded for it. And it shouldn’t be _hard_ , either. With the stalemate having lasted for so long, the Blues likely won’t be expecting them, and the plan is—

Gunshot. Sergeant Engel hits the floor.

Simmons vaguely wonders who saluted Engel in the field, or if the Blues just got very lucky.

Gunshot. Sergeant Johnson hits the floor.

Okay, _super_ lucky.

There’s half a moment where Simmons sees not only his squad, but the squad over hesitate. They’re probably supposed to retreat, or relegate command back to Sergeant Grif back in Red Base, but…

“Charge!” someone yells.

Oh, fuck, Simmons thinks, as the Warthog leaps forward.

 

* * *

 

“Go for cover!” Simmons yells at his driver. “Get out of the middle of the open field, dumbfuck!”

“But the Blues are scattering!” the driver yells back.

Gunshot. Driver shrieks and the Warthog skids to a halt. Someone yells, the driver shouts “Copy that!” and jumps out the driver’s side door.

“Hey!” Simmons yells. “What the fuck?!”

But the guy’s not coming back, apparently, so Simmons leaps off the back and slams his foot on the pedal and ducks his head down below the dash and really really wishes that Grif were here because Grif could be blind with no hands and still somehow manage to drive in a straight line. From what he can see out the passenger window, they—

There’s a crunch as the Warthog’s front bumper flattens itself into a boulder. The lurch sends Simmons’s shoulderplate straight through the radio.

“Over there!” someone yells, and then bullets start peppering the side of Simmons’s Warthog. He scrambles out the door and behind the boulder he’d just demolished the car with.

He takes stock of what he’s got--two pistols, a rifle, functioning radio if he needs help (although he’s somehow uninclined to ask for backup from any of these other Reds), and a Warthog that probably isn’t _totally_ wrecked. He peers up at the crushed front of the Warthog. It _looks_ mostly okay—the car isn’t totaled or anything, most of the innards should be untouched—but fuck if he knows anything about cars.

Well, he’s not exactly one for solo heroics. Sure, he wants to impress on the battlefield for recognition, but he remembers what happened to Hammer. Going in solo is grounds for getting killed, and also probably a panic attack if he thinks too hard about it. He’s going to need a partn—

“Welcome to my hiding rock,” says Caboose.

Simmons nearly jumps out of his skin. “Jesus!” Simmons says. “Wait--what, no, this isn’t your hiding rock. It’s mine now, Ca--I mean Blue!” For emphasis, Simmons points his gun at Caboose. “Get out of here!”

“Oh, okay,” says Caboose sadly. “Well, I thought we could share, but…”

Simmons tries really, really hard to _not_ feel like he’s kicking a puppy. Simmons reminds himself that he has only ever felt two emotions in his entire life, which are ambition and disgust, and there is no such thing as guilt. “No sharing! You’re a Blue, and you’re on the other side!”

“Don’t be silly,” Caboose says. “I’m right here. I’m at _your_ side.”

Simmons makes the verbal equivalent of a keyboard smash. “Caboose, I don’t have time for this,” he says. “Get out and find your own hiding spot!”

“But they’re shooting. Loudly.”

“I don’t care!”

“Yeah, see, that’s what Private Rilinger said to Private Lai,” Caboose says suspiciously. “And it did not end well when Private Lai left.”

Simmons pauses. Gunfire patters overhead. He pokes his head out. Nobody is looking at them which he considers as, instead of a negative because now nobody can see his promotion-worthy actions, a possible positive because now nobody can come kill Caboose. Shit, he thinks to himself. He didn’t come to this army to make _friends_ , he came here to make a reputation for himself and build a life career worth being proud of.

But what is he supposed to do--kick Caboose out into open fire and leave him to die? The answer is, well, _yes_ , because Caboose is a dirty Blue, but--c’mon. _Caboose_? Not that Simmons gives a damn but--Simmons suddenly has a vivid image of the look on Church’s face if...

“Um, uh, um, okay,” Simmons says, and drags his pistol in the dirt between them. “That’s Blue side, this is Red side. You stay on the Blue side of the hole,” he orders.

“Like a very very very very very tiny Blood Gulch!” Caboose says happily.

“You’re right, this is a terrible idea,” Simmons says.

“No, it’s a very good idea,” says Caboose. “I would not like for you to end up like Private Rilinger.”

Simmons stops. “What? I thought you said Lai was kicked out into open fire and…”

“No, the hiding rock had a mine and Private Rilinger died. I would not like that to happen to you, Simon,” says Caboose, quite seriously. “So I will stay here, so there is no mine to blow you up for being a dick who kicks your friends out into open fire.”

“I don’t think that’s how mines work.”

“Well, I think that’s how _people_ work,” Caboose says.

“Okay, you’ve officially lost track of the thread of conversation,” Simmons sighs.

“No, I—” Caboose pauses and cocks his head like he’s listening. “Sorry, what were we talking about?”

“Incredible,” says Simmons. “The memory of a goldfish.”

“It’s mean to insult goldfish, Simon.”

Simmons sighs. He pokes his head out again. The Blues shapes seem to be moving backwards. “Caboose, I think you guys are losing,” he says. “Ohhh, fuck, I should be out there…”

“Yes, that’s what Principal Miller told me,” Caboose says.

“Who?”

“The voice in my radio who made you insult goldfish.”

Simmons is almost certain that there’s an internal logic to that, but he has no fucking idea what it is. “Okay, go back. _Who_ is Principal Miller?”

“He wants to put me in detention.”

Simmons decides he doesn’t care who Miller is. “Okay, what did Principal Miller say?”

“That we’re losing,” says Caboose simply.

Simmons sighs. “I can _see_ that,” he says. He pokes his head back out--yep, the Blues are still losing—

“But I think that the Reds are losing too,” says Caboose. "Probably worse than us. You should be worried."

“What? No, you’re getting your asses kicked.”

Caboose points at the battlefield. “Principal Miller says he wants us alive so he can kill us himself, and that goes double for you, Caboose, you teamkilling manchild. But I don’t think your principals told you that.” He lowers his voice. "Maybe they should have?"

Then Simmons sees what Caboose is seeing, or rather was Caboose _doesn’t_ see: he doesn’t see any Blue bodies, just a ton of Blues running away from the Reds and giving up Blue territory willingly and freely. He sees more _Red_ bodies on the ground, some of them moving, most of them not.

He frowns. Checks his team stats.

He almost drops his gun. Within the first ten minutes, they’ve lost almost _half_ their men.

“Is this what we’re doing?” Simmons mutters. “Shocking the Blues by being so massively suicidal that they turn tail and run? Getting mowed down, trading men for ground? ”

“I don’t think that’s how trade works,” Caboose says.

“How would you know? You gave us chalk in exchange for bullets!”

“ _\--me? Can you hear me?_ ” says a voice on Simmons’s radio. “ _Or am I being a fucking idiot and talking into my own helmet by myself?_ ”

“ _We read you_ ,” says a voice.

“ _Okay, cool_ ,” says the voice. “T _his is Staff Sergeant Grif, highest ranking remaining personnel at this base, broadcasting on a team-wide channel. Let’s get the fuck out of here_.”

“ _Off the channel_?”

“ _Not the_ channel _. Why would I put you on the channel if I just want you to get off the channel? I mean the literal deathtrap you’re in. I’m talking about retreat_.”

“ _But sir_ —"

“ _Oh my god!_ ” Grif says. “ _Are you for real right now? What more motivation do you need to retreat other than Blue douchebags firing bullets at your helmets?!_ ”

Simmons flips on his radio. “The Blues are _losing_ ,” he interrupts.

“This is true,” Caboose agrees. “We are misplacing a lot of dirt.”

“The Blues are losing ground,” Simmons translates into the radio.

“ _Yeah, but I really don’t care_ ,” Grif snaps. “ _All the other COs are dead! I had to come out of the base, and now I’m getting shot at, dude! If you haven’t noticed, we don’t have a plan! Let’s get the fuck out!_ ”

“ _Sir_ ,” says a voice, “ _if you’d give us orders—_ ”

“ _I just did! The orders are to retreat!_ ”

“ _Sir! If you gave us real orders—_ ”

“ _Yeah, I don’t feel like it,_ ” Grif says.

There’s a silence. Thirty men on one radio channel, and not a single word. Simmons can’t even hear them breathe.

Simmons looks back at the Warthog. It’d be so easy. They _were_ winning. If he just stepped on the gas, the Blues would scatter like bowling pins, and…

“ _If you don’t like it_ ,” Grif says, “ _feel free to stay behind, without aid or backup or intel or any or sort of plan, and if you survive long enough to make it back, you can explain to Command why your ass is getting dishonorably discharged."_

More silence.

“Simon?” Caboose asks.

Nobody is going to speak. Nobody is going to acknowledge orders. In the distance, a Blue soldier pulls out a machine gun.

Simmons ducks his head. Stares at the ground. But he switches on his radio and grits his teeth and says, into the thick, rebellious silence of thirty Red soldiers: “Copy that. Heading back to base.”

His voice is thick with anger.

It takes a moment, but one by one, voices click on to the channel and acknowledge orders. Simmons thinks they might be acknowledging the orders individually, since nobody is really in their assigned squads anymore; the reel of disappointed, grudging, angry voices goes on and on and on. They do not sound like a glorious Red army. They sound like a ragtag group of surly boys.

But they acknowledge.

“I have to go,” Simmons tells Caboose.

Caboose is peering out from behind the rock, watching the Reds turn around and head back to Base. “Yes, I think your friends are leaving,” he says. He deflates, then perks back up in less than two seconds. “Oh! We can trade for turret kibble next week, right?”

“Yeah, Caboose, fine,” says Simmons.

“Oh good,” he says. “I hope you’ll bring Grif with two F’s with you. Maybe you can see my turrets! Man, it must be so nice. I wish Church could be at this Outpost with me. It must be so nice to be with your best friend all the time.” He waves. “Say hello to Grif with two F’s for me!”

Simmons sets his jaw.

 

* * *

 

 

There’s not enough Reds left to fill the proper assembly hall. They gravitate towards the mess hall, where people shed their helmets, sits sullenly on the tables, and murmur amongst themselves. Simmons is just entering from the West door when Grif, the ballsy fatass, actually dares to show his face through the East door. 

He takes one look at them, shrugs, and turns right around to leave. Someone laughs mockingly.

One private, who apparently can’t read the atmosphere, hops right off his stool, goes right up to Grif, and salutes. Everyone else stares. “Sir, are you here for the debriefing?” the soldier asks

Grif groans. “What the fuck do you need a debriefing for?”

“For one, to account for all our fatalities, sir,” says the soldier.

Grif screws up his face. “I don’t feel like debriefing you. I’ll do the fatality count later,” he says. “If you’ve got an injury, go over to the med wing yourself.”

“Sir, we have to take stock of the outcome of the battle—”

“I’ll do that later.”

“ _Later_?” He hesitates. “Don’t we need to _know_ the outcome of the battle?”

“Uh, isn’t it obvious?” Grif gestures to the mess hall full of dirty, wounded soldiers. “We got our asses kicked?”

Grif whirls around and makes a break for the only other exit, which happens to be exactly where Simmons is. “Hey,” Grif says. “You wanna be the ‘later’ that does all my paperwork?”

“No,” says Simmons.

“C’mon, Simmons, I’ll say nice things about you in the report—”

 _As if you’d actually write the report_ , is what Simmons is supposed to say. But he doesn’t say anything. He just stands there, arms crossed, teeth clenched, staring at Grif.

Grif groans, like not only his job but Simmons himself are a fucking imposition. “Come off it,” Grif says. “Me? Do responsibilities? Actually give orders? You know me. We did our best, we shot some bullets, it was time to come back.”

“We could have taken Blue Base,” Simmons says.

“So what?” Grif replies. “Are you going to do the paperwork or not?”

Whoever Miller is, he’d been right: Blue Team was losing ground. But so was Caboose: Red Team had been losing _people_ , and that their commanders _hadn’t_ told them to come back alive--not until Grif had shown up. They were trading people for a second base in a set of tunnels that went nowhere. (Having people at Rat’s Nest at _all_ wouldn’t have been worth it.) Giving up was, in fact, exactly the right call, even the call that Simmons would have  made in another time and place and military ranking. Retreat, regroup, launch a second, better assault that didn’t go to shit two seconds out the gate, and maybe, if they _really_ want that useless Blue Base, they can do it without any casualties. No pain, no gain works the other way around, after all--no gain means that there should be no pain.

But if there’s anything worse than Grif sabotaging his military career, it’s sabotaging his career because Grif is _right_. Objectively, plainly, completely right.

Simmons hates that.

For one pure, emptyheaded moment, Simmons _hates_ Grif.

“Do your own damn report, you lazy piece of shit,” he hisses, and stalks off back to the mess hall.


	17. Temper Mettle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simmons hates Sissy, and boy does it feel good to admit it.

Simmons is so pissed that he seethes through the rest of the day, and then the rest of the next day, and then the day after that. He’s pissed when Grif writes up the reports and catalogues the damage and cleans up the bodies. He’s pissed when Window Guy says hello in passing. He’s pissed and he takes the opportunity to skip every single meal, and he doesn’t even feel hungry and doesn’t even feel happy about not feeling hungry because he’s so busy being pissed. He’s _so_ pissed that when it comes time to stand guard with Sissy the next afternoon, Sissy takes one look at him and starts laughing.

“Reconsidering what I said about Sergeant Grif being a threat?” Sissy asks.

“ _Eat shit and die_ ,” Simmons replies.

Sissy laughs again, as if Simmons was just kidding around and didn’t actually, genuinely want this man to meet a grisly death by chainsaw. Sissy should have died in the last battle. There was a fifty-fifty chance he could have, god fucking dammit, what was Sissy’s fucking _problem_ , being alive to bother Simmons on guard duty? Guard duty isn’t Sissy’s _fucking job_ , it’s Grif’s job, except that if Grif was here right now Simmons would probably just punch him off the wall. But noooo, Simmons has to settle for Private fucking _Sissy_ , who appears to have no problem blindly baiting Simmons when he knows Simmons is pissed as hell, so shit, who gives a damn, right?

Fuck being polite. Fuck being nice. Fuck trying to not hate his coworkers.

Simmons _hates_ Sissy, and boy does it feel good to admit it.

“But now you see it. Now you admit it. Sergeant Grif is a veritable threat to the Red Army,” Sissy announces.

“I’m giving you five seconds to stop being a smug douchelord,” Simmons says.

“And we’re completely justified in wanting to find any way to dispatch him and call Command for a better—”

“Four,” says Simmons, and taps his finger along the side of his gun. “Three.”

“How’d someone so incompetent get promoted anyway?” Sissy wonders.

“You know, I’d actually tell you,” says Simmons, “if I didn’t despise the fact that cosmic space dust had the misjudgment to one day form the organic matter that is you.”

“So, he swore you to secrecy,” Sissy says.

“ _No_ ,” says Simmons, as clearly as he can, “I just hate you.”

Sissy chuckles again. He still doesn’t get it. He still doesn’t realize that Simmons isn’t kidding. Maybe Simmons isn’t enunciating his vowels right.

“And I enjoy sabotaging your delusions of grandeur and conspiracy,” Simmons adds, as clearly as he can.

“Alright, fine,” says Sissy, as if Simmons hadn’t spoken. He looks around, as if checking the weather and Simmons isn’t even there. “But since you’ve seen reason at last, I want to show you something.”

Then he walks straight out the guard’s tower and into the no-man’s land. The no-man’s land between bases is littered with old Warthog parts and the occasional rust-brown of dried blood. Blue Team’s guards had turned their helmets away when Reds came to collect the bodies. Sissy is going off to the side, way to the outskirts where they won’t be quite in plain view, but still a long, dangerous way from Red Base.

“Hey, no offense except, y’know, full offense because you’re being incredibly _stupid_ ,” Simmons snaps, “but where do you think you’re going?”

Sissy sounds positively gleeful. “I’ve already shown some others, but I want to show you, too. You deserve to know, considering your relationship to the Sergeant. I’ve found a way to get rid of Staff Sergeant Grif.”

Simmons chews his lip. He’s trying really hard not to grin, or maybe grimace, but then he remembers Grif’s shit-eating, careless shrug from yesterday and makes up his mind and stomps off after Sissy. He’s in a mood. He’s in The mood, actually. He’s in a Really Proper Mood, and the Mood wants to be reckless, and the Mood doesn’t _want_ to calm down, and the Mood wants to mess Grif up, because the tubby lazy fatass _deserves_ it. Simmons walks right into no man’s land without a backwards glance.

Sissy brings him to a corner of one of the long tunnels, still in clear view of both bases. There’s a pile of broken turrets shoved up against the wall. Simmons and Simmons’s Mood are uninclined to feel bad for Caboose and his broken turrets. “Okay, what’s this?” he asks, impatient.

Sissy pulls open one of the turrets, where a full magazine of bullets is still inside. It still has _Shipment to Outpost 28B--Red Base_ stamped on the side. “See this?” says Sissy. “Don’t you wonder why we get so many shipments but we always have so little supplies?”

Simmons says nothing. Very slowly, his heart begins to sink. On the other hand, Simmons isn't sure what else he expected.

“Sergeant Grif was in charge of the armory for a while, wasn’t he?” Sissy says. “Did you see his behavior at the armory? Suspicious. Very, very suspicious.”

Simmons feels his Mood beginning to fizzle away. He is, about ten minutes after he should have, beginning to realize that he might have fucked up.

“I,” he starts. “Well. That’s. Um.”

“And he’d have access to the records as well, so he could have forged those easily…”

“Ah, er,” Simmons says.

“So he was in the perfect position to do so,” says Sissy, “and with the way he was behaving? Barging in, trying to cover up anything he couldn't before he was transferred out?”

“I mean, you don’t _know_ that, that’s all… conjecture…” Simmons says.

He could scream. Here he is, pissed as all hell at Grif, and even now he _still_ can’t bring himself to throw Grif to the wolves?

Sissy isn’t listening, of course. Sissy is fiddling with the magazine, lost in his own little world. “The only question is,” Sissy wonders aloud, “since this is rather large operation, you know… it seems unlikely that this was solo work. He’d have to have a contact on the Blue side, and possibly a partner on the Red side, too. So who could have helped Grif with the operation and the forging of…”

Sissy trails away. Then he looks at Simmons.

Simmons thanks God and Jesus for the opaque visor on his helmet, because he is realizing how close to being caught for embezzlement and treason he is and he is _losing his shit_.

“Simmons,” says Sissy.

Simmons nearly swallows his tongue. “Er, uh, um...”

“I’m sorry,” says Sissy.

Simmons is going get caught by _Private fucking Sissy_ and get court-martialed and sent to jail and he’ll rot away in prison and his family will come and laugh at him and oh god his cyborg limbs need maintenance and who would yell at Grif to stop smoking and he’d never be able to compete against the prisoners doing hard time and he’ll have to live as some prison bitch for the rest of his—

“Sergeant Grif has replaced you with a new boyfriend,” Sissy says, with utter seriousness and gravity.

“What,” says Simmons.

“I’m sorry you had to find out this way but, as you can see through my impeccable logic and deductive reasoning that took zero leaps or shortcuts, this is the only logical conclusion. After all, nobody could possibly be so stupid as to be both working an illegal trade with Grif, and then come with me to investigate that illegal trade, so his partner definitely can’t be you. Face it, Simmons. Grif’s two-timing you.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Simmons replies. “As if he’d be able to get rid of me. He couldn’t--he wouldn’t replace me. Would he? I mean, after everything that we’ve gone through, everything we agreed to...”

Sissy makes a sympathetic noise.

“Wait, no,” Simmons interrupts himself, “this new partner isn’t real! Grif isn’t illegally selling ammo to the Blues, that’s ridiculous, and if he was, he definitely wouldn’t have partnered up with anyone but me! How do you even come up with the conclusion that he has a new partner _and_ that he’s fucking them?! And--and Grif can fuck off right now, anyway, so--so, y’know, I don’t give a shit about what he does anyway!”

“You still have the right to be jealous and heartbroken,” says Sissy.

“WHY would I be JEALOUS of a FICTIONAL MAN that Grif isn’t ACTUALLY CHEATING on me with. WHY.”

“Because as the nature of cheating goes,” Sissy says, “he’s probably better looking with a better personality and better career and probably better at giving head to boot.”

“BULLSHIT,” Simmons says. “Grif is--too lazy to cheat. Yeah! And for your information, I am perfectly fine-looking, my personality is a ray of sunshine, my career is taking off, and...”

Simmons realizes where his sentence is going. Anger boils higher. Why does everything have to be that homo shit with Sissy?

“...and besides, I hate Grif!” Simmons says. “So I don’t give a _shit_ about what Grif does, since everything he does is a lazy, incompetent waste of resources anyway!”

Sissy gives Simmons that Look. “You’re just going to let Grif get away with this?” Sissy says. “I know you’re upset, but don’t be blinded by your passionate, jilted-lover outrage. If we don’t stop them, Grif is going to drive us all to an early demise, bankrupt the Red Army, and get away scot-free with his new lover, all because you’re too angry to think straight.”

“I’M NOT ANGRY,” Simmons says, angrily.

“And then the two of them are going to escape this place with all their stolen money,” Sissy goes on, as if in a trance, “and escape to a distant planet where they plan to sort through their stolen goods, until they find that their hideaway is a planet ravaged by civil war, where they’ll realize what it means to work for the great good of a society and become the unlikely heroes of both sides against a conspiracy led by bloodthirsty mercenaries to artificially tear the planet apart via war…”

“You delusional, blind, ignorant waste of space,” Simmons sneers.

“...and beautifully grow into better versions of themselves and realize a deep concern for not only themselves and their well-being but for each other and the other’s well-being, which they will one day realize is the love they have always denied in words but not in action…”

Simmons starts snickering.

“...and settle down and have space babies on a vaguely socialist moon base retirement community for veterans,” Sissy finishes.

Now Simmons is laughing. It’s the same ugly, angry, mocking laughter that he used to hear from his mother. He doesn’t care.

Sissy gives Simmons a sympathetic look. “Like I said. Simmons, you’ve been dumped.”

Anger: boiling. “You need to knock it off with the gay jokes,” Simmons snaps.

“Why? Nobody minds if you’re fucking. Or _were_ , past tense.”

 _Nobody minds_ is a lie, first off. But then again, Simmons already knows that Sissy’s a liar. Second off: “Because _I_ mind that you’re assuming something that’s not even true, you inconsiderate imbecile. We’re not dating. We’re not anything. We’re not even friends. So for _once in your life_ , pull your head out of your ass and stop wasting air.”

Sissy raises one eyebrow.

Simmons grits his teeth. “We’ve just got really, really shit luck, so both of us always end up in the same places at the same times,” Simmons explains through gritted teeth.

Sissy raises the other eyebrow.

“Oh, why am I explaining this to you? I could be talking to a brick wall and it’d understand better than you. A guy has to cope,” Simmons says, very slowly, as if talking to an exceptionally stupid amoeba. “Like, we might have… maybe said some things, or behaved oddly here and there, but if we imply anything, it’s just--we’re just kidding. If we make a few jokes about some stuff, it’s because we’re having a morbid, black-humor laugh about us never being able to escape each other, even though logically speaking, we totally, completely should be able to. See? Everything we do is a joke between two totally, completely straight dudes.”

“Oh my god,” Sissy mutters.

Simmons sneers. “What am I doing, explaining to you? As if a delusional tin-foil nutcase like you could understand.”

“It’s okay,” says Sissy, and pats Simmons’s shoulder. Simmons has the sudden impulse to break his hand. “I know this break-up is hard for you, but maybe you can work it out with Sergeant Grif and you’ll get back together? If--ugh--if you _must_. I mean, I suppose getting promoted and currying favor is all well and good, but since he’s fat and ugly and lazy...”

Simmons’s eyebrows shoot up. “ _Excuse_ you?” says Simmons.

“Why, is that news to you? Have you seen his face? Have you seen anyone with such fucked-up skin grafts? Who botched up _that_ surgery? Couldn’t they bother to at least _try_ to match the skin to—”

“What the fuck do you know?” Simmons snaps.

“I think we can all agree that Sergeant Grif is an irresponsible and dangerous individual—”

Anger, boiling.

“The hell do you think you are, getting off and saying that?” Simmons asks, as if Simmons does not regularly insult Grif both behind and to his face. “When you’re an even _bigger_ piece of shit than Grif could ever be?”

Anger, boiling. Boiling—

Sissy gives him a withering look that Simmons can feel through the visor. “Please, Simmons. Don’t be so—”

“Shut up,” says Simmons.

“What?” says Sissy.

Whatever Simmons is, Simmons doesn’t want to hear it. He doesn’t want to hear anything this irritating, infuriating little man has to say anymore. He doesn’t want to put up with Sissy’s conspiracy theories and Sissy somehow having stumbled right into Grif and Simmons’s trading deal with Caboose.

“I said shut up,” says Simmons.

Sissy stiffens. The movement hits Simmons like the scent of blood in the water. “I thought we were all on the same page that Sergeant Grif has to be remo—”

“Do you hear yourself talk?” Simmons asks. “Do you have ears? Are you capable of actually listening to yourself, like you force the rest of us to do every time you waste our time by opening your mouth?”

“Simmons, I don’t know what’s gotten into—”

“What’s gotten into me is I’m fed up with you, and the rest of this _fucking base_ ,” Simmons snaps. “I’m tired of you and your shitty logic and all your crackpot theories that don’t check out or make sense or have a single ounce of self-reflection or criticism. And speaking of, what’s your fucking problem, _Sissel_?” Simmons sneers. “Nothing you say makes sense! Nothing makes sense!”

“I—”

“Do you _know_ , Sissel? Caboose was transferred here because they didn’t have anywhere else to put him!” Simmons says. “He isn’t a supersoldier, he’s just big and stupid and barely knows which team he’s on! He joined the army by accident! Grif and I are here because we _happened_ to be in the same place at the same time! Grif was promoted by chance! Grif was _drafted_ by chance, and _I_ joined on a whim! There’s no reason whatsoever that we wind up together, just that we do!”

“I don’t believe that the Red Army—”

“That’s fucking _rich_ , yeah,” Simmons interrupts. He’s aware that he’s shouting now. “You think there’s a Red Army cause? You think there’s a _Blue_ Army cause? What is it? Can you tell me? Do you _know_?”

“We—” Sissy is backing away. “We have to…”

“I don't care! Nobody cares, Sissy!” Simmons yells. “Even if there was a point to Blues vs Reds, nobody gives a shit about fairness and justice of winning or losing in _real_ wars, either! The only thing that matters is the money and fame we earn from putting other people down and putting other people in the ground! That’s the only reason I joined this fucking army, and the only reason _anyone_ should join this army!”

“Simmons, wait, stop—”

“No, and also fuck you!” Simmons yells, even though Simmons has no idea if Sissy means Simmons’s ranting, or Simmons advancing, step by step, backing Sissy up against the wall. “I’ll stop when we’re _dead_ . And newsflash! In this army, dying probably won't take that long! Because in this army, there's no need for _logic_ , we don’t need reasons to live _or_ die, there is no reason why we’re here, and we won’t get any reasons, either!”

Sissy’s back hits a wall. Simmons’s teeth are bared and he shoves his visor right up against Sissy’s visor.

“There’s no reason why we’re here, you schizophrenic jackoff. Uselessness goes for the Blues, for the Reds, for Caboose, for Grif, for me, and certainly,” Simmons hisses, “ _most_ certainly for _you_.”

Simmons is so close he can see the outlines of Sissy’s eyes through the visors. They’re wide. Staring. Glassy with fear.

Simmons smiles, finally, _finally_ feeling satisfied.

“So shut the _fuck_ up,” he seethes, “keep your head down, stop thinking, stop _lying_ , and _give up_.”

Gunshot. Simmons hits the dirt.

Not intentionally. It’s because his leg fucking hurts. His leg possibly hurts for reasons related to the gunshot. He should yell about the pain, but he’s so surprised that he forgets.

“Hands up, Red!” comes a voice. Aw, fuck, Simmons realizes; Blues who saw the some Reds sitting like ducks in the middle of the no man’s zone, and also probably heard Simmons yelling at the top of his—

“You killed him!” Sissy yells. He sounds offended.

Yeah, that’s a good plan: play dead. Simmons lies very still and does his best impression of being killed. Maybe he can shoot them when they’re not expecting it? But his gun is still in its holster and the gun he was holding isn’t anywhere near his hands anymore, so—

“I said hands up,” says a second voice. “or—”

Sissy pulls up his gun instead.

The second guy freezes. “Shit, Randall!” says the First.

Sissy hesitates.

Second says, “But what about taking priso—”

Simmons reaches for his gun. Sissy looks at him.

“Just shoot!” cries First.

Gunshots. Sissy’s head jerks back. His entire body jerks back. Visor glass shatters.

The body collapses.

The Kevlar undersuit is leaking red.

Nobody moves.

Simmons lies very still and pretends he wasn’t reaching for his gun after all.

“Jesus,” says Second Blue.

Through the cracked visor, Simmons can see the inside of Sissy’s HUD and the peak of a human nose. Lights are flashing.

“Why the fuck didn’t you just shoot him?” snaps First.

“Well, why didn’t you?!” Second snaps back.

“I was out of ammo! Why didn’t _you_?”

“I… I dunno, he wasn’t, like, really aiming or…”

“He was pointing a gun at you!”

“I didn’t think he was really going to shoot!”

“Of course he was!” cries First. “He’s a Red!”

Simmons is holding his breath. Sissy’s HUD begins flashing red. Armor lock compression is activated to preserve blood in the ruptured organs. Armor lock compression is failing.

Second mumbles something unintelligible.

“What?”

“I said, can we go now?” says Second, in the tone of voice that makes Simmons doubt that that was what he’d said. “We swept the perimeter. Let’s go report it and let the higher-ups handle it.”

“Good idea,” says First. “Can you believe that that’s the first time we’ve killed a Red at this outpost?”

The HUD freezes. Armor lock compression failed.

“On purpose, you mean,” says Second. “Plenty of Reds have died on accident. Unless there’s a word for the opposite of ‘Caboosed’?”

“Uhhh, Caboosed is like, accidental manslaughter. So maybe... intentional murder...?”

The display goes black. Armor operating systems shutting down.

“That’s not a word, that’s a phrase,” says Second. “And don’t I need intentions for it to be intentional?”

Simmons lies there a long while, listening to them argue and watching the Kevlar drip. When he can’t hear them anymore, he twists around, checking his limited range of vision through the visor to see if they’re really gone--which they are--and pulls himself to a sitting position. His wounded thigh protests, but from the throbbing ball of pain that feels lodged in his quad, it’s nowhere near any bones or arteries that he can remember. He’ll probably be okay.

Probably.

He blinks in the dim light. He tries to feel his leg, but most of his leg has gone numb except for the tennis ball of pain where the bullet is. Maybe he’s going into shock? Is that how shock works? He doesn’t feel angry. He doesn’t feel scared. He feels...

_So shut the fuck up, keep your head down, stop thinking, stop lying, and give up._

(Not that Sissy wasn't Simmons's most despised person the planet but--had that _really_ been the last thing Simmons had ever said to someone just before they--?)

No. Never mind. He's got to report that they lost another soldier. He gets up and tests out his wounded leg--"Jesus fuck!" because it really, really does hurt--and checks his holster. He looks over his shoulder in the direction of Blue Base. Nobody around. Just him and the body. He's got to report that. Let the higher-ups handle it.

Got to report. Got to report. Don't panic. Got to report. He limps in the direction of Red Base. Got to report. He is trying to be glad that, at the very least, he is no longer angry.


	18. Leg Sidle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I love badmouthing the dead like the classy gentlemen we are.”

In the first hour:

“Leg wounds are kinda like Hollywood’s way of saying ‘you didn’t get shot anywhere important’” the medic complains. “As _if_. You could lose your entire leg with a leg wound.”

“ _What_ ,” Simmons says.

“Yeah, seriously. Leg wounds are crazy. There’s a bunch of shit in legs like, you know, arteries and bones and junk. Did you know your leg has bones?”

Simmons hopes to god that that’s a rhetorical question. The medic looks at him expectantly. Simmons realizes it wasn’t, in fact, a rhetorical question. “Yyyyyyyyes,” says Simmons. “Yes, I did.”

“Sometimes the bullet hits an artery and then you bleed out and die,” the medic says. “And if the bullet hits a bone, then the bone usually shatters and the fragments grind around inside the muscle that’s trapped inside your skin until it hits an artery and then you bleed out and—”

“Am I _dying_ ,” Simmons interrupts.

“Nah,” says the medic.

“So you hyped me up about dying over my leg wound for nothing.”

“You’re still going to be in an assload of pain, if it helps.”

“It doesn’t.”

“Like, a _metric fuckton_ of pain,” the medic says again. “When the localized anaesthetic wears off? Damn! Have fun.”

“Are you gonna take the bullet out, at least?” Simmons asks.

“Hell no,” the medic says. “I’m leaving that thing right where it is. Do you want me fucking around in your muscle, trying to pull that thing out? I could accidentally puncture an artery and then you bleed out and—”

“Okay, okay,” says Simmons.

“So now you have a metal chunk even in the organic bits of your body,” says the medic. “Congrats.”

There’s a pause. The medic gives Simmons a considering look. “ _How_ did you say you got turned into a cyborg again…?”

“I didn’t say,” Simmons replies.

The medic shrugs. “Well, it’s convenient, at least,” says the medic. “Your chest literally opens right up for organ maintenance. Have you seen this shit? _Wild_.”

“I do, sometimes, take my shirt off,” Simmons replies flatly. “Sometimes in the vicinity of a mirror, too.”

“Literally, I could press a button to open you up Y-scar-style. You’re the Easy-Cheese of heart surgery patients.”

Simmons thinks about that for a moment. “I resent being compared to plastic cheese in an aerosol bottle, but that’s good to know,” says Simmons. (Which he’s not being sarcastic about, actually. Who knows what his electrolytes are doing?"

“You still have to do some rehab on your leg, though,” says the medic. “And you’ll probably have to stay here for a while while the muscle figures out what it’s going to do with your new chunk of metal. Your body might freak out, but considering the shitload of other metal,” he gestures to Simmons’s metal arm, “that you’ve got in you, I’m guessing… probably not.”

“So you’re going to do nothing,” says Simmons.

“Yeah,” says the medic.

Simmons sighs. “Of course. What did I expect from a medic? You don’t heal people, you just help them as they die.”

“Oh, no, I’m not a medic,” says the medic. “I’m just some guy who cleans the medbay until an actual medic gets shipped in.”

Simmons chokes. The not-medic gives him the biggest, most awful shit-eating grin Simmons, exception of Grif.

“I’m just going to keep calling you a medic until the actual medic gets here,” Simmons says.

“You do that. We’ve been requesting a medic for almost three years,” the medic replies.

 

* * *

 

 

Then Simmons wakes up feeling like he’s dying. 

He’s not dying. He was barely sleeping--he’d slipped into a twenty minute nap. But his chest is tight anyway, and he can’t breathe, and he reminds himself to breathe out so there’s enough room in his lungs to breathe in, and then he can breathe again, but his chest is still _pinching_ , like someone’s opened up his chest and has a clamp around his arteries—

He lays there until he can feel the pain in his leg. He's not dying. He's not dying. He's  _not_.

Then he recites every awful swear he’s ever heard from Church, who is a far more imaginative swearer than he will ever be, because damn, his leg really does _fucking hurt_.

He rolls over and clenches his fists and tries not to be here, which is not unlike literally anything else he’s ever done with his entire life, but now the pain is too loud for him to want to find some food and throw it back up. He wonders how he’ll be able to throw up with his leg in this condition. (Not because he wants to throw up now, not in particular; just planning for the future, because he knows himself. He knows that’s only a matter of time.)

(Simmons stares at the ceiling and tries not to think about that.)

 

* * *

 

 

In the second hour:

“Oh, by the way,” says the medic, “when was your last physical? The last thing I have on file for you is from…” The medic flips through the clipboard. “...from five years ago? Did you just never have a check-up at your last post?”

“Uhhh,” say Simmons. “Wwwwwhich answer won’t get me in trouble?”

The medic rolls his eyes. “I don’t get paid enough to care. Out of my way, I have a bunch of medical electronic shit I wanna use.”

 

* * *

 

 

Heart failure is not uncommon for people who throw up too often. Bulimics, sure, but also alcoholics who drink themselves sick on the regular. Especially alcoholics who drink without food, and then throw up nothing but liquid. Nothing worse for clearing out all the electrolytes you need to live like throwing up the liquid at the bottom of your stomach.

He’s heard that sometimes you die fast, that way. He’s heard that most of the time, it’s slow and painful; that you end up trapped in your own malfunctioning body as it struggles towards life without anything it needs to live.

Bodies, as purely physical entities separate from the people they house, don’t need reasons to live. It’s nice to be able to pinpoint the physical reasons why they die.

Simmons wonders what the physical reason Sissy died was.

A bullet, _obviously_ , he’s not stupid. A bullet through the head. Through the brain, more specifically. What malfunctions when a bullet rips through a brain? Through the eye, through the skull--does the skull fracture, too? Bounce around in the skin, tearing through the brain? Does the brain need to be arranged a certain way to function? Isn’t it all just grey matter? What makes the brain work? What makes it stop—

Fuck, fuck, Simmons wants to leave. (He shouldn’t have said that to Sissy. Any of it.) He needs to get out of here. But he can’t. He’s stuck here with he and himself. He suddenly sees the appeal that his mother saw in alcohol--portable, concealable, doesn’t require a toilet if you can hold your liquor. Simmons stares at the ceiling and tries not to think about that, either.

 

* * *

 

 

“Did you know we have a cool glowy thing?” the medic says. 

Simmons frowns. Did he mean the cool glowy thing that Doc used? “One of those things that examines people by reading data their power armor picked up, along with other signals from heat signature and magnetic pulses…?”

“How would I know,” says the medic. “Ask the medic when he gets here. Anyway, the little glowy thing spat out a bunch of numbers about what your blood is doing—”

Simmons suddenly feels the strong compulsion to jump out of bed and run, like that one time that he’d gone to the dentist while ass-deep in a two-year purging streak and sat in the waiting room convinced he was going to be told that all his teeth were going to rot and fall out because of all the stomach acid in his mouth; he’s going to be told that his electrolytes are fucked and he’s about to die and his potassium is nonexistent and probably something about ketones because he hasn’t eaten in like three days—

“--and everything’s fine.”

“What?” says Simmons.

“Yeah, apparently literally nothing changed from your last check-up. You’re in perfect health. Nothing’s wrong whatsoever.”

Simmons says nothing.

“Cool, good talk. Oh,” says the medic, as if he just remembered: “But you probably missed dinner, so here’s something while I get someone to bring food, which you’re definitely going to need to heal up that leg.”

He hands Simmons a cup of something orange.

It looks like orange juice. Smells like orange juice. Simmons swirls the juice in the cup. It has the consistency of no-pulp orange juice, too.

“What is this?” Simmons asks.

“Uhhh, orange juice?” the medic replies.

“There’s only orange juice in this?”

The medic gives him an odd look. “...Yeah?”

“Okay,” says Simmons.

The medic leaves. Simmons looks at the orange juice.

He should probably drink this. Literally no nutritional value, of course, considering that orange juice is just pureed sugar in water which, speaking of blood sugar levels, would just fuck that up and probably make him jittery. Why does he need it if he’s just going to sit in bed all day?

But why _doesn’t_ he need it? It’s like, six ounces. What damage could it do? Some? Negligible? Significant, but workable? Drink the fucking thing, Simmons. Not all food people give you is poison. He’s not going to die. He just got through worrying about his health check-up, he’s not _particularly_ trying to follow any food rules or record what he eats, so why not?

But why not _not_? It’ll just—

Oh, never mind. Simmons knows this game. He doesn’t want to play. The guy said _perfect health_ , okay, he’s fine, nothing’s wrong with him, he has medical records to prove how _nothing wrong_ he is! No consequences! No problems! Nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing! Flush it all away, all gone, start again tomorrow and promise not to purge, repeat yesterday and purge, flush it all away, all gone, start again tomorrow, he’s going to be healthy, he’s going to be okay, he’s going to be nothing wro—

He doesn't want to play this game, either. He dumps the juice in a potted plant and leaves it alone. Then he stares at the ceiling and tries not to think at all.

 

* * *

 

 

In the third hour:

Grif slams open the door and Simmons nearly jumps out of his skin.

“I’ve been messaging you for _forever_ !” Grif nearly yells. “How come I didn’t hear that you’re in the _medbay_?!”

“Why, something important happen?” Simmons replies.

“Uhh,” says Grif, in that way that he does when he doesn’t really have anything important but he wanted something else entirely--presumably to see Simmons in the medbay, or something gay like that--so they have to side-step the real issue for the prerequisite twenty minutes before they can get to what’s actually happening.

Therefore, Grif goes on to detail to Simmons that he, apparently, used his helmetcam to message Simmons a smiley face he’d drawn with ketchup on--on a--Simmons squints at the photo and then feels himself physically recoil. “Grif, I swear to god, if you drew that ketchup-face on a _pancake_ …”

“Putting syrup on pancakes is so mainstream. I developed a taste for ketchup after I started putting ketchup in my oatmeal.”

“Get out out of this medbay,” says Simmons.

“C’mon, Simmons, you’re hurting the smiley-face’s feeli—”

“Who’s yelling?” the medic yells from the office.

“Me,” says Grif.

“Who’s ‘me’?”

“This _heathen_ ,” Simmons says, “who puts ketchup on his fucking pancakes—”

“Never mind, doesn’t matter,” says the medic.

“Aren’t you going to tell me to leave?” Grif asks. “Y’know, ‘it’s not visiting hours,’ and ‘the patient has to rest,’ and ‘you’re disturbing the healing process’--all that good shit?”

“Why would I?” asks the medic. “I don’t care. I’m not liable for jack shit. Go on, fuck him up.” And the medic slams the office door closed.

Grif and Simmons look at each other.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” says Simmons, “but I think I like Doc’s personality better.”

“Does Doc have a personality to like?” Grif wonders.

“Christ, Grif, and you accuse _me_ of hurting a ketchup-smiley-face’s feelings.”

“You ignored him when I sent his photo to you!”

“I wasn’t really keen to sit in bed in full power armor with a helmet on,” Simmons replies.

Grif’s eyes go, almost involuntarily, to Simmons’s leg. “So, uh,” he begins. “Are you, like…?”

“I’m dying,” says Simmons flatly.

Grif freezes.

“Every single one of my arteries were hit,” says Simmons, “and also all my bones, and my leg is a fractured mess that will never recover, and all my arteries are bleeding out and dying! In fact, I’m on the brink of death as we speak.”

Grif clears his throat. Gives Simmons an unappreciative look. “Okay, fine. Whatever. Cool.”

Simmons scowls. Honestly--what did Grif want him to do? If it’s not allowed for Grif to openly care that Simmons landed himself in medical, then how is it allowed for Simmons to openly acknowledge that Grif came to see him and how he was doing? “It was one bullet. It’s fine. Go ask the medic,” says Simmons shortly, and sidesteps right into: “We lost another guy today. We’re down to forty-four.”

“--Oh,” says Grif, and frowns and scratches his head. He looks back at Simmons’s leg again before tearing his eyes away. “Right. And you’re telling me because I’m the only Sergeant left at this base.”

“Yeah. God forbid, but it’s up to you to find Private Sissel’s file and mark it with KIA. Don’t get lost in the archives.”

“Wait,” says Grif. “ _Sissy_ died?”

“Yeah,” says Simmons.

“What happened?” Grif asks, and then before Simmons can respond, Grif apparently realizes that Sissy is an appropriately neutral person that Grif can ask after without looking like a loser: “Were you attacked? Who was there? Was it just you two? How many other guys? How come I didn’t hear about it until just now? What was the damage?”

Simmons sighs. “Sissy, the fucking idiot, thought he could uncover some conspiracy about Caboose. So he went off the regular patrol route. Then a pair of Blues saw us doing nothing in the middle of the battlefield and--apparently these Blues, unlike those Blood Gulch goons, can actually hit their targets.”

“And that’s how…”

“They thought I’d died,” Simmons says. “They must’ve been far off when they hit me, so they just came, shot Sissy, and left.”

“You were lucky,” says Grif.

“I could have gotten luckier and gotten shot in the metal leg,” Simmons complains. “As it was, I couldn’t drag his body back so we could bury him.”

Grif says nothing for a moment. His face is screwed up, like he’s trying to figure out his chances and hedge his bets. Then he says, “He got shot and killed... in front of you.”

Simmons would actually rather they go back to talking about his leg.

“Well, thank goodness, honestly. He was an asshole,” says Simmons. “I probably wouldn’t have brought back his body even with good legs.”

Grif is looking at him side-eyed. “Yeah? Isn’t he the guy who cornered me in the mess hall?”

Simmons snorts. “Yeah, that guy. He’s also the guy who--what’d you call him? Prissy Sissy?”

“Yeah, that guy you were complaining about in the first couple weeks here.”

“What a fucking toolbag,” Simmons complains.

“Pff, yeah,” says Grif, “what a toolbag. I love badmouthing the dead like the classy gentlemen we are.”

“We already badmouthed him when he was alive, anyway,” Simmons says.

“Gossiping behind people’s backs is the best, obviously.”

“Not just behind his back,” says Simmons. “To his face.”

“Damn, really? When was that?”

“Two seconds before he died,” says Simmons.

There’s a silence.

Simmons is suddenly very interested in the bedsheets. When he looks up, he catches Grif looking at his leg again.

“What’d you say to him?” asks Grif.

Simmons swallows. “Really nasty shit,” he admits, more quietly than he should have.

Silence.

“Yikes,” says Grif, tentatively.

“Yeah,” says Simmons.

More silence.

“But he was a piece of trash, anyway,” says Simmons, which isn’t a lie.

“Yeah, I guess that’s true.”

"Can you believe,” Simmons says, “he took one look at Caboose and decided he was a tank on two legs.”

“To be fair, Caboose kind of _is_ a tank on two legs.”

“Yeah, but he thought he was a tactical mastermind or something,” says Simmons, more irritably now. “Do you know how annoying it is to listen to him jumping at some dumbass conspiracy theory? Do you know--fuck, did I tell you about this? He was an absolute douchebag like, _all_ the time, but this one thing he did was the absolute _worst_.”

“Oh, boy,” says Grif. “This one sounds like a good one.”

“He was _convinced_ ,” Simmons says, “that we were sleeping together. He took one look at us and he was like yep, those two, gay as hell—”

Grif looks appropriately amused by this.

“--but then he had the fucking nerve to be like, oooh, Simmons, you don’t have to whore yourself out, _I’ll_ help you out so you don’t have to pity-fuck Grif, like you’re some awful catch or—” Simmons realizes his sentence is going straight into Forbidden Zone and does a U-turn: “—like I was some ugly mutt he was trying to adopt! Or--I don’t know, some exceedingly stupid and ugly thing--”

“At least ugly mutts are cute.”

“Yeah!” Simmons says angrily. “Like I was a--an ugly mutt turd, or something!”

“A flea?”

“Bacteria!”

“Uglier,” says Grif. “A sea cucumber. Those are like, living turds.”

“Sea cucumber turd,” Simmons seethes. “ _Fuck_ that guy!”

Simmons crosses his arms, winces when it jostles his leg, and fumes. Grif looks away from the leg again.

“Let’s give him a shit burial,” says Simmons. “You gotta send someone to get his body. Then we’ll put ‘professional turdbucket’ on his grave.”

Grif groans. “I gotta send a report, gotta square away the pension… All this paperwork. Geez. Ugh, fuck, I won’t bother with Command. I’ll just rewire the pension to his family and send a note.”

“They’ve probably got a boilerplate letter for notifying family of deaths.”

“Fuck it, too lazy to find it,” says Grif. “I’ll write my own.”

“Tell them he was a turdbucket.”

“Fuck yeah.

Simmons blows out a breath. Nothing like working yourself up into a proper irritation, like he can breathe the poison out of his body with a good rant.

Grif’s helmet dings. Grif kicks it under the bed.

“Let me guess,” Simmons says. “Someone’s messaging you to tell you to do a responsibility you’re avoiding.”

“You know it,” says Grif.

“You should probably do it.”

“Impossible. I’m emotionally compromised right now. I have to weep at the bedside of my gay lover as he angsts over the death of his beloved partner, and tell him how much I love him and cherish him and want his space babies.”

Simmons reaches over and does his best attempt to shove Grif without upsetting his leg, which Grif dodges easily. “Grif! Go do your work for once!”

“C’mon, babe—”

“Don’t call me babe.”

“--you’re breaking my heart,” Grif complains.

“Good!”

“Emotional _turmoil_ , Simmons!”

“For fuck’s sake!”

Grif kicks his feet up, grinning, and doesn’t leave.

Simmons kind of doesn't mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh my god remember when my chapters were short


	19. Waiting Games

Waiting is difficult. Waiting for one's own leg to heal is difficult, and Simmons is only done with the first four days of his mandatory seven days of bed rest. Waiting for the clock to hit one in the morning so Grif could sneak off to trade ammo with Caboose is difficult.

None of these things are as difficult as waiting in Blood Gulch. By this point, Simmons thinks they should considered actual professionals at waiting. The Big Leagues. Training every day. Shooting for the Olympics, maybe.

Case in point: As of right now, Grif is crawling out from under Simmons's bed, both of them staring at the door as if expecting Window Guy to come bursting back in, shouting that he'd known Sergeant Grif was hiding here the whole time. "I just don't get why they keep coming to here to find me," Grif says. "Nobody sees me come in. They just come here because you're here and they assume I'll be here too. Do they think we're attached at the hip? That we just talk to each other all day long?"

"We've been doing nothing but playing cards and talking for the last nine hours," Simmons says. "It is entirely, completely true that if Window Guy finds me, he'll find you."

"Eh," says Grif. He passes a full food tray of the mess hall's dinner to Simmons, which Simmons puts on the bed and does not touch.

“If you actually talked to Window Guy, you’d have something to do, and you’d be less bored,” Simmons says.

“Eh,” says Grif, and opens a new snack bag of those little corn-chip bugles.

"You know that Window Guy runs the armory," Simmons reminds Grif.

"Eh," says Grif. Grif glances at Simmons's food tray again. Grif has been waiting for Simmons to eat that dinner for the last hour. Simmons feels a flash of anger that he swallows down, hard.

"The armory, Grif?" Simmons says.

Grif has been waiting for Simmons to eat something for the last four days, the _fucking_ helicopter.

"The armory we've been _stealing_ from," says Simmons, voice tight.

Grif blinks like he's just lost his train of thought. "Oh, shit, d'you think it's about that? I thought he was just upset because I haven't reported the last skirmish to Command."

Simmons feels his eyes narrow, and Grif immediately shoves more bugles in his mouth and gathers up their deck of cards. Did Grif think that he could just ignore the battle in which they lost half their force? The shifts were longer, the workforce spread thinner, the patrols tired and overworked, everyone wondering when Command will send replacements--and Grif's just going to ignore it? Running away from his own failure as a Sergeant, now?

But Simmons is trying not to be mad about Grif giving the order to retreat, anymore. Let it go, namaste, kumbayah, wear his yoga leggings and maroon tank top and do some of those stupid breathing exercises his high school counselor wanted him to do, back when the counselor used to say that Simmons should _watch your temper, it might lead you to actions you'll regret_.

So instead, they talk about vehicle maintenance and speculate what the requirements of being a medic would be. They play a shitload of card games. They gripe about being bored as hell, because they are, although Simmons gets to gripe a little extra because Grif completely does not understand what it's like to be as busy of a body as Simmons and then get assigned to sitting around doing nothing. Being useless is stressful fucking business, but less so when Simmons is semi-drugged and woozy from lack of food.

Simmons grits his teeth and tries to ignore that Grif still refuses to file the proper reports in the aftermath of Red Army losing half its men at Rat's Nest and spends more time loitering in the medbay than he does out of it. Simmons knows that Grif is only here because he doesn't want to do any work, and Simmons, honestly, could fucking strangle him for it. And in the event that Grif escapes Simmons's reach, Simmons has got some lungs now, he's got some ab-work done with all the puking he's gone through, he could shout Grif out of this medbay if he really wanted to and it'd probably feel great, too.

But the worst--or maybe the best--is always, always when Grif brings two plates of foot from the mess hall: three times a day, three plates of food gone to waste. Simmons doesn't even feel a little bit bad about throwing the food away, because not being able to eat is a problem that dead-eyed boney girls have, and Simmons is not a skeletor-girl and therefore that is not a problem that Simmons has. And because Simmons literally, physically cannot get up to throw up his food, he doesn’t _eat_ the food, and therefore he spends each one of his meals _not_ staring at the inside of a toilet bowl.

QED: Simmons is angry, starving, stressed as hell, bored out of his mind, and unironically, unsarcastically, genuinely having the _time of his life_ not throwing up, at all, for the first entire week in _months_.

"We're not playing Go Fish if you're going to count the cards again," says Grif. He's done shuffling the cards.

Simmons glares. "It's a legitimate strategy."

"Those are the justifications of a cheater, Simmons."

"Well, it's not like we can play Old Maid with only two people, idiot."

"Speed?"

"You can't ask to play Speed and then say you're too lazy to move fast enough to win."

"I've got it," says Grif, and puts the cards down and holds his hands up.

" _We're not playing patty-cake, Grif_."

"It's called Numbers," says Grif, "and it's a completely different thing. C'mon, Simmons, I'm bored, you're bored, let's go. I bet we can get up to at _least_ four hundred."

Simmons groans at the top of his lungs. "Griiiiif..."

"No, I'm not going to go out and trash the motor pool just so you have data to reorganize," Grif says.

"Grif," Simmons says, despairingly.

"You fucking workaholic."

" _Griiiiiiiiif_."

"And also fuck you for making me be the responsible one."

"How am I supposed to survive without constant validation and reassurance of my existence through overachievement," Simmons complains.

"Jesus fucking Christ. Have you tried relaxing, Simmons? For once in your entire, white-knuckled life?"

Simmons is sitting up straighter now. "Wait.."

"No, that right there is the opposite of relaxed. Back slouched, leaning down, chilling out--"

"Seriously, listen! If Window Guy was here to see you about the armory..." Simmons chews his own lip. "You know that Sissy had proof that someone was smuggling ammo to the Blues, right?"

"Yeah, heard some guys talking about it at breakfast," says Grif. "They sounded upset that the Blues conveniently killed him right after he started spreading the gospel truth about my lying, thieving ass, blah blah, everyone hates me.”

“That’s nothing new.”

“But then I was like, those guys are idiots, obviously, if they think there’s some sort of pseudo-conspiracy about why Sissy died, because it sounded a lot like they thought it wasn’t the Blues who did it, but one of our guys, and specifically the guy who was with Sissy at the time, which was you—”

Simmons nearly chokes.

“--but obviously that couldn’t be right because you got shot, too. You already have an alibi.”

"They think I did it?" Simmons yelps. “You didn’t think this was _important_ to mention?!”

"Uh, well, no, because you got shot, so--"

"The only place a human is incapable of shooting him or herself is in the back," Simmons says. "Self-injury to provide a plausible cover is easy to do and common."

"I'm... both impressed and terrified that you know that information off the top of your head," Grif says. "But also entirely unsurprised, you huge fucking nerd. Which shitty sci-fi novel did you get that from?"

Simmons would rather die than admit he learned it from a fanfic and then later fact-checked it, so instead he informs Grif: "Congrats, we're super, super fucked. Everyone hates you and now me because I associate with you. Window Guy was probably here to tell both of us exactly how incredibly fucked we are."

Grif frowns. "Well, I mean... how bad could it be if we get caught, anyway?"

"They're going to court-martial us and send us to jail," Simmons snaps, "or save themselves the effort and just kill us by firing squad."

"PFFFFFFFF," says Grif. "Death by firing squad? What is this, the 1900's? As if that could ever happen." He kicks his dirty feet up onto Simmons’s white bedsheets. "And besides, I already gave it my best shot. Get it? Shot? Like a firing squ--"

"Yes, Grif, I get it, and also it's entirely unfunny. There was no actual joke involved."

"All puns are funny by default," Grif says.

"That's the worst lie you've ever said. Actually, that's the worst statement you've ever said or ever will say, full stop."

Grif waves a hand. "I'm a hundred percent sure I could top it—”

"Focus. We can't just abandon the armory issue," Simmons says. "Someone's going to pick up the clues. Probably the fucking prosecutor."

Grif is putting bugles on his fingers, but none of them are staying. The only one who'd had fingers small enough to wear bugle hats was Donut and Sarge's pinkies when Sarge thought nobody was looking. "Well, okay, sure. But what're we supposed to do? Just stop the trade? Or pin it on someone else? Leave Caboose out to dry?"

Simmons thinks about that.

"Yes," he says, with conviction.

"What?" Grif says. "Oh, c'mon, Simmons, it's Caboose, don't be heartless--"

"No, I mean--we'll stop, and pin it on someone else. If we stop now, then a whole bunch of people will have just died in the last battle, right?" Simmons says. "Meaning that if the shipments stop now, then it could have been any one of them. Right?"

"Shit," says Grif. "That's--yes. Yeah. Holy fuck, yeah--"

"--but  there is the issue with Caboose," Simmons interrupts.

"We'll tell him tonight that we're stopping the trade," Grif says. "He'll be fine, he's a big kid, we’ll tell him to write his sad turret feelings to Church."

"What do you mean, 'we'?" Simmons says.

Simmons knows he's totally asked for the response he's going to get right before Grif's starts grinning that shit-eating ‘ _let’s go to the Vegas quadrant_ ’ smirk on his face. "C'mon, Simmons, I thought you wanted something to do? What else are you gonna do with your night if not further incriminate yourself in the eyes of the law?"

"Heal," says Simmons promptly. "Be a good patient. Follow orders. Sleep, maybe. Do what I'm told. Be here when the not-medic comes to check on me and my recovery."

"That's the saddest, squarest thing I've ever heard from you," says Grif. "Which is really saying something."

"Yeah, tell me about it. Let’s steal some crutches," Simmons says.

Simmons's dinner is left uneaten on the bed. Grif finds him a pair of crutches and says nothing.


	20. Night Lights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Don’t ask don’t ask don’t ask don’t ask--

Not eating is always and forever the worst idea that Simmons has ever had, currently has, or ever will have, of all time.

And so is eating.

So if both eating and not eating are bad ideas, it’s a bit of a bind, obviously.

See, Simmons wishes he could explain the “not eating” bad decision--something about how he “feels better when he doesn’t eat” or some ana-butterfly self-delusion like that, because the truth is that nobody feels better when they don’t eat. Or maybe he could say that he’s had a stressful, life-changing experience of watching an arrogant dickbag in Red get shot by  chatty assholes in Blue--but that, too, is mostly par for the course. He wants to say that he hasn’t eaten in a week because he’s reached the point of exhaustion, that every thought of food and eating and the consequent throwing back up the food and eating and the five million ways he can and will fuck up has pushed him to the last resort: “you can’t fuck up if you don’t eat.” (That one might be true.)

But Simmons has the feeling that as nice, neat, and comforting all these stories are, the truth is the same as it’s always been: Old habits.

Alone at home for a weekend and Mom told him to order takeout because the fridge is empty? An opportunity to not eat. Nothing to do over spring break in the college dorm? Opportunity. Sick in bed and can’t move? That’s an opportunity. Shot in the leg and literally can’t get up to eat? That’s an opportunity!

 _No options are good options_.

And not eating is a good opportunity to be too tired to heal your leg wound, too tired to walk to the other side of base, too tired to keep pace with Grif, too tired to keep pace with Grif who’s slowing down, too tired to _listen_ to Grif.

Who is talking.

Right now.

To Simmons.

Which Simmons should probably respond to.

“Wait, what?” Simmons says.

“It’s just truthful,” says Grif. “The phrase ‘earth to insert name’ should be replaced with ‘space to insert name,’ because we’re all in space.”

“No, we’re at Rat’s Nest, not in space.”

“But Rat’s Nest is on a planet, which is in space.”

“That’s a lie by misleading.”

“Or is it just _so_ true,” Grif says, “that it _looks_ misleading?”

“No,” says Simmons, too grumpy to shoot back something intelligent.

“Maybe you just can’t handle the truth,” says Grif, as if that joke isn’t older and deader than he is.

"I'm leaving," says Simmons.

"No, c'mon, we're waiting for Caboose."

Simmons, frankly, just doesn’t want to play. He doesn’t want to anything, except sit by himself and be unpleasant and mean and ugly and hangry all by his lonesome, where he can’t fuck up with other people. He hates being hangry. He’s already an unpleasant enough person as he is.

They’re sitting at the far back of the base, a little further off from the armory and the single stalled bathroom. It’s one in the morning. A lone halogen light is flickering on this side of the base. The night is cool, the air is dark, the tunnels are picking up just the hint of a breeze. Simmons thinks it should be pleasant, but he mostly hasn’t eaten enough to have any internal body heat, and _that_ pisses him off a little, too.

But now Simmons is trying to think back to what he remembers from high school and college--he _thinks_ being hangry is a thing, but what does he know? Did he take notes? Did he record data on the field? Introspection is a lie and a con, _especially_ on the Eating Thing. He likes to think that after all these years, the passage of time might have made him more objective on the Eating Thing. But mostly he feels confused by himself--did he _really_ refuse to eat broccoli at the dining hall but had no problem with six shots of vodka? Or the time he binged on four bagels so fast that it came back up in whole chunks?

He feels like he’s trying to reverse-engineer an answer to a stranger’s dilemma, that the person scheduling in purging hours in between class and study sessions was someone else entirely. And that, of course, means two things: 1)  overthinking things has only ever given him a fear of food and psychologists who might diagnose him, and 2) now he knows that any answer he can reverse-engineer will be wrong, or at least could never compare to the experience.

Here’s the one thing he can expect, based on what he remembers: when he starts eating again, it’s going to be purge hell for weeks, and then he’ll get exhausted and stop eating, and then more purge hell, and then exhaustion and no eating, and then more purge hell, and then and then and then. He didn’t think about this when he started throwing up again. God fucking dammit, he should have stopped himself. At the time, he couldn’t even _remember_ why he’d ever wanted to quit. And now he doesn’t even know where to _begin_ with stopping—

Simmons groans into his hands.

“Tell me about it,” says Grif, apparently picking up some conversational thread. “ _Really_ weird for Caboose.”

Simmons has no idea what this conversation is about. “Caboose is always weird,” he flubs.

“And yet he was always on time.”

Simmons looks at the time at the corner of his vision. Caboose is now an hour late. The tunnels are dark and entirely empty, except for them.

“Well, it’s not like anything bad happens if he doesn’t come,” says Simmons. “He just doesn’t get the message, and we wait until next week to tell him that we’re not doing the trade anymore.”

Grif gives him a look. “You said that thirty minutes ago.”

“Oh,” says Simmons. He’d… forgotten. He vaguely remembers it, it’d just… slipped his mind. Thinking about too many other things. Feeling like his brain is swimming through clear white sludge. "Well, we can still leave."

Grif throws a rock into the dark tunnels, where it skitters across the metal and dirt. “Let’s give him a little more time. He’s totally coming, he’s probably just held up by some higher-up.”

Simmons feels himself grow grumpier and hangrier and uglier on the spot.

“A little more time than an hour?” Simmons asks, grumpily and hangrily and ugly-ly. “How _much_ more time does he need?”

Grif shrugs. “I dunno, but I don’t have anywhere to be in the morning, and neither do you. Who needs to sleep, anyway?”

“ _I_ do,” snaps Simmons. “Scratch that-- _you_ do. You’re the one napping all the time.”

“Sleeping is a hobby,” says Grif. “Not to be confused with a necessity.”

“Sleep _is_ a necessity.”

“Yeah? Try hitting the fifty-hour mark of being awake. You’ll feel like you can smell colors and fight God.”

“As if you’ve ever been awake that long,” Simmons retorts.

“You got me there,” Grif concedes in the easy tone of voice that always makes Simmons suspicious.

“I’m leaving,” says Simmons.

Simmons puts his hand on the ground to push himself up and immediately feels his head become five times lighter and weirdly off-balance. He sits back down. He could probably walk back to the room on his own, but the alternative is to sit here and fume at himself and his inability to eat something without having a fucking federal meltdown, which is obviously the far superior option.

Fuck it. Fuck this. Tomorrow, he’s going to eat breakfast. No, wait, he hates eating in the morning. He’ll eat lunch. Ugh, but, it’ll sit in his stomach all day and he still won’t be able to get up and walk around, so, uh, maybe just a snack? A snack at the time at which he’s supposed to eat lunch but it’s not really lunch? Where would he even _get_ a snack? Should he just accept the tray that Grif brings him from the mess hall? But then he might inhale it, and he doesn’t want to die from eating a solid meal after his digestive system has undoubtedly closed up shop and stopped moving; he has to ease back into it, or, or something responsible like that--but for fuck’s sake, then he’ll just go right back into getting jittery about having eaten and then he’ll have to throw up on a bad leg, and—

He blinks. “What?” he says.

Grif is staring at him. The instant their eyes meet, Grif looks off into the dark.

“Nothing,” says Grif.

Hold the fucking phone.

Simmons feels his heart sink.

He is suddenly acutely aware that Grif has been sitting in a medbay with him for four days, during which time Simmons ate absolutely nothing, and Grif is wondering. He has to be wondering. He has to be thinking what the fuck is wrong with this guy, what’s going on, what a try-hard, what a chickenshit, what a coward, how _fucked up_ , a confused man with a stupid girl’s disease--

“Seriously, what?” Simmons asks. His voice is sharp. Grif’s eyes tighten. “Is there something on my face? There better not be something on my face.”

Please, please don’t ask why Simmons hasn’t eaten.

“Christ,” says Grif. “Could you be any more insecure?”

Simmons is going to shatter into a million pieces if Grif asks and he doesn’t even know why. He just knows that these are the sorts of things that should hide in closets, in the dark, in the dead of night, where other people cannot see your shames; they should never have seen the light of day.

“Me? Insecure? Ridiculous,” says Simmons. “I can’t be insecure. My ego is massive.”

“I didn’t say it wasn’t,” Grif mutters.

_Don’t ask don’t ask don’t ask don’t ask--_

_(If Grif asks, they can get it over with—)_

“Then what?” Simmons demands.

“Just, like, I dunno,” Grif says, leaning back. “You seem kinda... spacey today.”

“We can’t change the phrase ‘earth to insert name’ to ‘space’ just because I’m spacey today,” Simmons says, by which he means SERIOUSLY, GRIF, _DON’T ASK--_

Grif snorts. “No, I just--seriously. Are you, like… okay?”

Simmons watches Grif go through the Five Stages of Grief nigh-instantaneously:

1) _Denial_ : Did I just admit to giving a damn about if he is or isn’t okay? Did I bring upon myself a conversation that I’m not emotionally equipped to handle? _Me_ ? Do _that_ ? With _my_ mouth? No. Impossible. You have the wrong man, officer, I’d _never_ confront emotions that I could otherwise avoid. And then 2) _Anger_ : what the FUCK was I thinking? What the FUCK was I doing? How could I— 3) _Bargaining_ : maybe I can play it off as a joke? Maybe it won’t be that bad? Maybe Simmons was too stupid to realize what I said? 4) _Depression:_ I’m going to die. I, even semi-casually, asked Simmons if he was okay, which is more than acceptably douchebag joking territory, and I’m never going to live it down. Welcome to hell on earth, population Grif. And then 5) _Acceptance_ : I said that. I really fucking said that, and everything is awful.

Simmons sits there and feels nothing. Whatever it is that he expected Grif to ask after watching Simmons eat nothing for a week, it was _somehow_ not “are you okay.”

“Of course I’m okay,” he says.

He looks at Grif. Grif sneaks half a glance at Simmons. Simmons can’t decide if he wants Grif to drop the subject and shut the fuck up, or maybe grab Grif by the collar and _make_ him say all that hurtful shit if only because Simmons had been ready to _be_ hurt, or maybe kiss him, but not that last one because that would be gay and weird, and also not the second one because Simmons has lost his temper once in the last week and  _that_ didn't end well at all.

Grif looks down at his hands. He nods. Then he nods again, a little less “whatever” and more resolute. “Uh. Alright,” he says, and doesn’t push it.

There’s a silence.

Simmons realizes again: he’s not pushing it, and apparently, he’s not going to push it.

Simmons looks at him. Grif looks back and shrugs, a little too casually, as if to say: what can you do, man?

There’s no way that Grif is that stupid, Simmons thinks, wildly. Grif was there, Grif knows he’s not eating. He can’t have missed that. He’s the one who kept bringing food, who never mentioned anything when Simmons threw it away, he’s the one who asked Simmons to go to dinner before the skirmish and stared when Simmons ate, there’s _no way_ that Grif doesn’t think something’s… _wrong_ with him. He has to see it--maybe not _all_ of the ways that Simmons is disgusting, but enough that Simmons sometimes wishes Grif would get deployed to a planet on the other side of the universe.

Doesn’t... Grif think he’s _weird_? And wrong? And gross?

There’s silence.

There’s more silence.

“Why do you ask,” Simmons says, which seems like a neutral compromise between the urge to run and the urge to shake the answers out of Grif.

Grif honestly looks fucking terrified that Simmons is not only not dropping the subject but is actively inquiring, but all he does is shrug again.

“Dunno. You, um, said something kind of odd the other day, is all.”

“Kind of odd,” Simmons repeats.

“Yeah. I was just wondering.”

“Wondering about what,” Simmons says, voice sharp.

“Nothing about you,” says Grif. “This isn’t like, the Spanish Inquisition or anything. I don’t really… just. Uh. Fuck. Y’know, like... “

Grif hunkers down and makes himself small. Simmons watches him, waiting for the hit.

“Whatever it is, it’s, y’know, whatever. Like, it doesn’t matter to me _what_ it is, right?” Grif mumbles. “I was just, um, wondering if I should be worrying. Since we’re like, y’know, stuck together with this whole illegal trade thing, and...”

Simmons thinks about that.

“Nope,” says Simmons.

Grif nods again. “Alright.”

“Nothing to worry about here.”

“Like I said, you don’t have to prove it or anything,” says Grif, which is a wild fucking concept that Simmons doesn’t even know how to respond to.

“Now I'm leaving,” says Simmons, and makes to stand up. "For real, this time."

“But what if Caboose comes as soon as we go?”

“Caboose has had almost an hour and a half to get here. Move your ass and help me up.”

“But…”

Simmons scowls. “Do you wanna sit here with me in the dark now that we’ve almost had an emotion?”

Grif moves his ass.

 

* * *

 

 

Thirteen years after this began: Simmons is beginning to think that maybe, possibly, _potentially_ , he’s wound up with an Old Habit that’s a _little_ more than a habit. Something that he doesn’t know how to end. Something that might not _have_ an end.  

Thirteen years after this began, Simmons thinks about this from someone else’s perspective, and decides that worrying should be done about something that is within that person’s power to change.

So he thinks Grif shouldn’t worry about things that will only upset him and make Simmons feel like a skinned fish, for both of their sakes. He doesn’t know how else to say thanks. His vocabulary in kindness is limited. Not talking is the only way either of them know how to be a friend.

Simmons is so, so glad when Grif dumps him back in the medbay bed and Simmons falls right the fuck to sleep and doesn’t have to think about any of this anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *ignoring 30k words of plotline discussing simmons's failing mental health* DID YOU SEE THAT. SIMMONS HAD A GAY THOUGHT ABOUT GRIF. LOOK RIGHT THERE IT HAPPENED AFTER 30K WORDS OF THIS SHIT WE'RE FINALLY GETTING TO THE SLOW BURN L O O K A T I T


	21. Rat's Head

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's dirt in the gears.

Simmons is released from the medbay and, to nobody's surprise, immediately begins to purge again. It was a good run, seven whole days of peace, but we all knew it wouldn't last. Starvation always ends, one way or another.

Grif avoids him like the plague which, Simmons assumes, is as much of a relief for Grif as it is for Simmons. They’ve had enough emotions for the next… forever, honestly. It’s time to retire. Hang up his spurs and his neurotransmitters, take out his amygdala and replace it with a jellybean--it’s been a good run but honestly, fuck that noise.

That, actually, could be the end of our story. That’s how a lot of stories end: two people, too awkward to confront the tawdry illicit, sordid affairs of last night--he means emotions, of course--henceforth avoid each other for just a while, just until it’s not awkward, then a while longer, because the avoidance itself is awkward, and then longer still because the expiration date on amicable silence has way the hell passed, and now there’s nothing left to do but pretend they never knew each other.

Logically, Simmons reminds himself that this is a goddamn opportunity to be rid of Grif that he should have taken when they first got to this damn base. Five--no, six years ago, he’d be _jumping_ to shove Grif under a bus. This is a gift. A way to break the curse, almost--how did he describe it to Sissy? A sadistic design of duality? Some cosmic joke? Unfortunate show-running? Space fate?

When he returns to the single-stalled bathroom at the back of the armory (which he knew he’d return to, let’s be real), he takes off his helmet and his gloves, as he always does. He leans up against the wall. He really, really doesn’t not want to be here. He wishes with most of his shitty metal blood-pumper to be anywhere but here, except for that small piece of him that doesn’t think he’d survive if he had to give up eating trash and then getting rid of it.

And his throat jams thinking of--of fucking Grif, of course this asshole that space fate chained him too--being fucking _worried_ over him, as if he cares, as if Simmons and his health is something worth worrying over, as if maybe Grif is worrying about him _right now_ because lunch just ended and Simmons booked it as soon as he finished eating and Grif was there and Grif _must_ have seen…

This is the time that he’d throw all his worries and overthinking into the toilet bowl. But now his brain won’t shut off, like a switch that won’t flip. There’s dirt in the gears. He keeps thinking about what Grif said the night before. _Are you like… okay? I was just, um, wondering if I should be worried…_

_So shut the fuck up, keep your head down, stop thinking, stop lying…_

Here he is, standing in a single stalled bathroom, getting ready to coax his stomach muscles into working in the opposite direction that they should. The bathroom doesn’t look so different from the one he’d used in college. _He_ doesn’t look so different, somehow, as if all these bathroom mirrors show the same pimply, ugly preteen he’d been when he was thirteen. All these bathrooms have the same feeling of permanence, as if this, right here, is his real life, and everything outside (from Blood Gulch to his college classes to his family) is a feverish escapism from reality, which is firmly locked up in the tiny college bathroom in the basement, next to the washing machines, or the high school bathroom between the squash courts and the water fountains, or the junior high bathroom, third floor West building facing the computer lab, all the way to here, the Rat’s Nest bathroom, hidden on the far side of the armory. His whole life feels like it’s been reduced to single stalled bathrooms, as if he, as a person, could be reduced to this one shame.

Nothing’s changed. Nothing is changing. For this reason, he knows that he has no business thinking anything _could_ change.

The little feeling in his gut telling him, for the first time in years, that he might be able to _make_ things change, that he might even want to, just goes to show how illogical he’s become since joining this fucking army.

 

* * *

 

He still throws up, though.

 

* * *

 

 

On the fourth day of avoiding Grif, Simmons thinks that the space fate that conspires to keep Grif and Simmons together could probably hurry the fuck up, or else Simmons will have to do something himself, and honestly, having free will is the worst kind of news for repression and other types of mental avoidance gymnastics. Instead he decides that he’ll just go about his day as usual: he’ll do his morning patrol shift, stare at the Blues by himself (because they don’t have enough people to replace Sissy at his post), stew in overthinking for five hours, work himself up into a proper stress, consider doing something to de-stress that isn’t eating food and then throwing it back up, then eat food and throw it back up. He thinks he should earn brownie points for considering a healthier coping mechanism.

It’s on this internal mental note that he misses Window Guy nearly have a heart attack when he sees Simmons comes by to pick up a pistol. “Oh, Christ,” says Window Guy, and looks around frantically for the coworkers he was supposed to have.

“Morning,” Simmons says.

Window Guy stares at him, like he’s expecting Simmons to shoot him, or maybe demand he put his hands in the air and give him all his money.

Simmons frowns. “I’m on the morning shift? Just like yesterday? And the day before that? I need something to stand guard with? I’m just here to get my designated weapon?”

“Right,” Window Guy mutters to himself. “Not my problem. I don’t get paid to make decisions.”

“Uhh,” says Simmons.

“How can I help you?” says Window Guy, in his awful, uncanny-valley customer service voice.

“I’m on the morning shift,” Simmons repeats. “I need something to stand guard with.”

“Just a moment,” says the uncanny-valley voice.

Simmons frowns harder. “For what? Nothing about the weapons assignments was changed in the last day. Just give me the same thing you gave me yesterday.”

“It’s protocol,” says Window Guy. “It’s easy to fall back on in times of turmoil.”

“ _What_ turmoil?”

“UHHH, NOTHING. So how are you today,” says Window Guy, sounding supremely uninterested and unhappy in having to ask how Simmons is today.

“Fine,” says Simmons, cautiously.

“How are you, uh, enjoying the new base.”

“I don’t think it qualifies as a new base if I’ve been here for over a year,” says Simmons. “And it sucks, thanks for asking.”

“Sorry to hear,” says Window Guy.

“Bet you are,” says Simmons, who is still incapable of making any friends or playing nice with others.

There’s a pause.

“It’s not a _bad_ base,” says Window Guy.

“Probably not,” says Simmons.

“But it still sucks?”

If Simmons were a man prone to long bouts of truthful introspection, Simmons would mean to say is: _at Blood Gulch, I didn’t have to confront the fact that moving up in the career ladder requires making genuine friends, which I can’t do, because I’m shit at it, because of who I am as a person. At Rat's Nest, even now, this entire year has been spent fucking up my only relationship with a human being (who is unfortunately Dexter fucking Grif), watching half my team die in battle, watching someone I knew get shots full of holes in slow motion before my eyes, and destroying my health. Rat’s Nest is a disgusting, claustrophobic cesspool of bad thoughts, and no matter what the place is like physically--although the fact that Rat’s Nest has literally nothing to do but stew in your own thoughts certainly contributes--this outpost will always be marred by my seething mass of shitty, shitty headspace. Much, in fact, like a nest of dirty, ugly rats._

_And, be if physically or mentally, I want out of this shithole. I want something better, because I think I might want to actually get better._

But Simmons, who devotes most of his self reflection to doing every mental backbend to avoid self reflection, instead simply settles for: “Yes. It still sucks.”

“Sorry to hear.”

“My weapon, please?” Simmons says impatiently.

Window Guy looks around again, then sighs. “Okay, sure. Protocol says to give you a weapon today, regardless of current events. Here you go.”

Simmons’s eyes are narrowed to slits. But he takes the pistol and leaves.

“Oh, and Simmons?” says Window Guy.

Simmons turns around, even more wary than before. He wants to get the hell out of here.

Window Guy waffles for a moment, then sighs. “Never mind. It’s been a long day.”

“It’s only six in the morning.”

“I know,” Window Guy groans.

 

* * *

 

 

Simmons walks to his post, wondering what the fuck that was all about, up until the point he actually gets up on his post and looks over at Blue Base 

Caboose had, unknown to Grif and Simmons, been first detained in the brig by his own CO, departed on a secret mission with a secret agent to do secret things, like find Church and his secrets. Caboose, however, is a considerate friend. He tells people goodbye when he leaves and goodbye when they leave and is always happy to see someone come back. This is why Caboose, for lack of radio channel with the Reds or any forewarning from the Secret Washing Tub, had to improvise his goodbye.

On this shitty morning that Window Guy apparently hates so much, a large banner is strewn up like a party decoration across Blue Base for all of Red Base to see. It reads: _THANK YOU FOR ALL THE TURRET BULLETS, GRIFF AND SIMON! ♥_

Simmons looks over at the post one guard tower over. Both Reds there are staring right the fuck at him.

A voice blares over the PA system: “ _Would Sergeant Grif and Private Simmons please report to Building A?_ ”

Simmons turns around and bolts in the direction of Grif’s room, wounded leg and all.

(What did he say? It’s fucking space fate. And about time, too.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> caboose is trying his best, okay.


	22. Jailbreak Promposal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Maybe we're kidnapping each other."

Here's how reacting to the effective final nail in the coffin of their ill-advised ammo-smuggling scene is supposed to go:

Simmons opens Grif's door and says, very calmly, "Grif, we've been compromised and we have to escape the premises as soon as possible or we're going to get shot and killed by our own men."

"I agree with your sound judgment," says Grif. "I will move in an orderly fashion at a brisk pace that is neither too slow to get us caught nor too fast to alert panic, taking only essentials en route to the nearest available exit."

Here's how it actually goes:

Simmons bursts through Grif's door and yells, "Grif, we're FUCKING DEAD and we have to get the FUCK out of here RIGHT NOW or we're going to get shot and killed by our own men."

Grif is asleep in nothing but a pair of boxers and is snoring loudly.

Simmons shoves Grif's entire body off the bed, which makes Grif yell, which makes Simmons yell, then they yell at each other about why the fuck did you do that and why the fuck weren't you up and oh god everything hurts and I don't care you were supposed to be awake and oh I'm dying Simmons leave me here you've killed me let Sarge know he finally got his wish and then there's a lot of exaggerated groaning from Simmons as Grif, still half-asleep, bemoans his own impending death via the treacherous fall from his mattress to the floor and Simmons wonders why nothing in his life can be easy, or at the very least orderly, for just once.

"Grif, shut it. I am five hundred percent serious right now," Simmons says. "You need to move your ass right now, because the literal entirety of Red Base is pissed at us and coming to find us as we speak--"

"You can't have five hundred percent anything," Grif mumbles. "That's not how math works..."

"I know that's not how math works!" Simmons cries. "I'm breaking the rules of math because that's how distressed I am! Are you happy?!"

Grif squints blearily and crinkles his nose and scratches his dick and honestly looks too asleep to be having any functioning thought or feeling, with the sole exception of instinctively being a huge pain in Simmons's ass. "What'd you say about the literal entirety of Red Base?"

"Get up," Simmons says. "Get up, put your armor on, we're going."

"What?"

"I'll explain later, just go!"

 

* * *

 

 

Later is when Grif has put on all his armor and Simmons has shoved a box of granola bars (what a waste of calories) and three canteens of water into a bag and they're both doing the lowest-budget reenactment of every shitty sci-fi spy film that Simmons once unironically loved--peering around corners, whispering over a private channel, tiptoeing in their six hundred pounds of electronic armor, shushing Grif every two seconds, dragging Grif in the right direction--which all would be fucking cool in the geekiest, uncoolest possible way if Simmons wasn't two inches from meltdown. Then Simmons gets them out of the building Grif's quarters were in into the yard, and there's Caboose's banner, clear and bright like fireworks over the wall. So Simmons fills Grif in as fast as he can with all the almost-nothing he knows, and is also slightly relieved that at least now they're on the same damn page so Grif can finally stop digging his heels into the metaphorical dirt. 

Which is when Grif digs his heels into the unmetaphorical dirt.

"Are you for real?" he says. "That's all what you're worried about?"

"'That's all'?" Simmons repeats incredulously. "They've got our names hanging from Blue Base--"

"No, they don't," says Grif. "Look, it says right there: 'Griff and Simon.' You're _Simmons_ . And I'm Grif with _one_ F."

"Do you really think anyone is going to give even the tiniest shit about that," Simmons says. "Do you really."

"I think they _should_. I mean, honestly, who doesn't know how to spell the name Grif? Or the name Simmons? Besides Caboose, of course, because he's just Caboose, but for the rest of these guys? C'mon. They couldn't possibly pin anything on us they can't prove just over a banner that doesn't even get our names right."

"It doesn't matter what should or shouldn't happen," says Simmons, who rapidly approaching pissed off but refusing to let his temper get the best of him now. "They're going to put two and two together even if nothing was there. They were already suspecting you because they wanted a reason to, and Sissy's been spreading rumors about us smuggling the ammo and then there was the rumor that I killed him for spreading that rumor--Grif, c'mon, don't you see? It doesn't even have to be true that we were selling ammo to Caboose and then killed Sissy to cover it up. The Reds will believe it because it's what they want to believe. And I'm telling you now, Grif, if you don't want to get our asses kicked, our best option is to--"

He stops.

"Is to what?" Grif asks.

Simmons fidgets.

"What, are you suggesting we just... we just book it? Get out of here? Go AWOL?"

Simmons is beginning to realize he's verbally trapped himself into a corner. Again.

"Really, Private Kiss-ass?" Grif asks, sounding delighted. "You're suggesting we just up and walk out of the army over a fictitious problem that's not even going to happen?"

"Don't be ridiculous!" Simmons says, as if that was not high-key the entire idea.

"Well, uh, from what you're saying, and the fact that you came bursting into my room and then packed all my shit and then tried to smuggle me out of the base, uhhhhhhhhh..."

"We couldn't," Simmons says, with wavering conviction.

"Where would we even go? How long could we even get away with it? Would it go down as a lower-ranking officer kidnapping their commanding officer? Or the other way around? Wait, are you kidnapping me?"

"Grif--"

"Maybe we're kidnapping each other," Grif muses.

"--if you could take this seriously for--"

"Aha!" says Grif, and snaps his fingers. "We're running away together. Into the sunset."

"No, that we are not--"

"We're eloping."

Simmons dumps the bag on the dirt. "You can run away by your sad and lonely self."

"So we are running away," says Grif quickly.

"From the people who want to kill us, yes!"

"Together. Into the sunset."

"Out of necessity."

"How romantic," says Grif.

 _He's doing it to get a rise out of you_ , Simmons reminds himself. _He's only doing it because he knows it bothers you_.

"Oh, darn, I forgot the wedding ring," Simmons says flatly. "If I promise to pick one up later, will you please move your fat ass towards the motor pool for our daring escape so we're not killed by our own men?"

"You're hooking a lot of your proposal on this fictitious scenario in which Red Team is coming to kill us for selling ammo to Blue Team."

"Because they are. I am telling you, right now, with the iron absolute certainty of plot foreshadowing, that our men are coming to kill us."

"I dunno..." says Grif doubtfully. "Does the ammo thing really matter that much?"

"To them? Yes!" snaps Simmons. "They actually give a genuine, bona fide shit about how this war works out! This war is why they're here, Grif! Which is why we need to be not here, and instead be literally anywhere else, together!"

Grif says nothing. Then:

"Okay, fine," says Grif, "I'll come, if only because I'd never turn down an opportunity to get the hell out of this army. But," he says, holding up a hand, "I want a nice wedding ring."

Simmons groans. "I'm trying to _help you_."

"Take it over leave it, Simmons."

There's half a second where Simmons very seriously wonders if he could, in fact, just fucking leave him.

"I'll pick up a Ring-pop for you," says Simmons.

"I want the blue flavor."

"You Blue Team traitor," Simmons hisses.

"Not my fault that blue raspberry tastes bette--"

"Sergeant Grif!" a voice calls. Private Window Guy is fronting a small group of men up the main road. One is holding a bad arm, two are favoring their weight to one side. "Sergeant Grif, sir, may we have a word?"

Simmons feels his heart sink. Of course--of all the stupid, inane ways they could get caught, it's because they took too long debating Grif's fictional wedding ring. It's not too late, Simmons thinks wildly; they just have to make a break for it--

"Yeah, what?" says Grif. "Can't you tell you're interrupting something?"

"Grif," Simmons warns.

"Yes, sir. But we still thought it was fairly important to bring to your attention, so..."

"Okay, fine, whatever," Grif says, ignoring when Simmons smacks him in the side, trying to get his attention. "What now?"

"Well, sir," says Private Window Guy, "we were discussing the ammo thing among us, and the last battle, and the general command structure of us taking orders from you, and, y'know, a lot of us thought that was. Uh. Well, most of it was awful, sir."

Oh Christ, Simmons thinks. We're about to be killed by our own men.

"So what?" says Grif. "You got a complaint? Take it up with Command. Unless you're kicking your commanding officer out of the base or what?"

"Nothing personal," says Window Guy, "but we took a vote and we thought we'd stick with tradition, sir, and kill you by firing squad."

A group of men behind him pull out their rifles.

"Sorry, sir," says Window Guy. "I voted to give you guys to the Blues. I also voted to not be the one to come and get rid of you but all my friends decided that that I was the man for the job, by which I mean they did the Nose Goes protocol, even though they all weren't wearing helmets and I was so I couldn't reach my nose, so..."

Window Guy sighs irritably. Simmons gets the feeling that this man was just voted Most Expendable out of his group of friends.

"Wait, wait," Simmons interrupts, "we don't have to be so hasty about--"

"Oh, and I'm supposed to get rid of you too, Private Simmons," says Window Guy. "Since we figured you're, like, definitely working with him, considering the banner."

Simmons thinks this over. "Uhh, well, okay, I guess that makes sense--"

"And because I don't think anyone here really likes you," says Window Guy.

Simmons wishes Window Guy had just shot them and been done with it.

"Any last words?" Window Guy asks.

"Yeah," says Grif, sounding supremely inconvenienced by the predictable and justly-deserved consequences of their actions. "You guys suck."

Window Guy shrugs. "Ready!" he says. "Aim!"

Simmons glares at Grif with every ounce of irritation he can muster. "Killed by our own men," says Simmons through gritted teeth. "Couldn't see this coming."

Grif sighs.

 

* * *

 

 

One minute and forty-one seconds later, Sarge drives a Warthog between them and a dozen bullets. Neither of them die and neither of them elope, and Simmons is saved having to pick up a blue wedding ring for Grif's traitorous, skeptical ass. 

He is very glad to leave Rat's Nest behind, and he's very certain that nothing that has happened here will ever come back to bite him.

 

* * *

 

 

//end part 1: RED VS BASE

//next up, part two: TRASHY SLUTTY ROMANCE FICTION

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cool, that's a wrap. whew! im taking a break next tuesday as i plot out my trash and sluts and romance fictions, where shit gets slightly less un-real and i probably tear down my "canon compliant" ao3 tag and slam dunk that shit in the trash. i'll see yall on 08/29/17, or at hylian-reptile on tumblr, or lmk what u think in the comments ofc. see ya later o/
> 
> EDIT: if youre binge-reading all the chapters all at once, i IMPLORE you to take a break here!! give ur brain and eyes a rest!! this is a good stopping point meant to be a complete arc by itself. go take a nap lol


	23. PART 2: TRASHY SLUTTY ROMANCE FICTION

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Boners are an art."

When Dex was fourteen, the United Kingdom of Hawaii dissolved under American rule for the last time. He was no longer sure who the major players of the movement were, nor how long they’d been planning the siege in the 'Iolani palace, nor what happened to them afterwards. But he remembered it because those protesters seemed uniquely interested in not just emancipating the Kingdom of Hawaii from America’s original invasion of native land, but (he imagined, without any evidence at all) what that emancipation _meant._

He’d seen them protest before, but this time, he was old enough to realize that there was no Kingdom of Hawaii to save. The protest was for the principle of the thing, changing the laws of justice itself, as if by correcting this one original sin--the theft of benevolent land, of the only gift from life and God the Polynesians had dared to accept--then perhaps not just this mythical Kingdom of Hawaii, but the land itself and Kai, Dex, Mom, and everyone else who lived on that land--no, that the laws of fairness, happiness, and reality might, one day, turn out okay.

The protesters were pulled out via SWAT team, as they always were. Dex figured they’d be back again in another four years, as they always were. Mom would be confused when he told her, Kai would chatter eagerly about what little Hawaiian history she knew, and they’d go to Walmart’s electronic section and catch KHON’s broadcast of protesters flying the State flag upside down, chanting in Hawaiian, barricading the 'Iolani palace’s wrought-iron gates shut, brown faces that looked like Kai’s and Dex’s peering through Queen Liliokulani’s bedroom windows.

But he never saw them again.

By the time he was drafted, he figured there’d never been any Kingdom of Hawaii to save since 1893, January 17th, anyway.

 

* * *

 

 

Nowadays, Minor Junior Private Negative First Class Dexter Grif, male, thirty-three, of the Red Army, is breaking in the new Red base at Valhalla, with the dubious help of Private Richard “Dick” Simmons, male, twenty-nine, also of the Red Army. “Breaking in” the new base, in Grif’s case, requires squirreling as much food into every drawer as he can, scattering shitty toiletries into vaguely inaccessible bookshelves, and throwing civilian clothes over every possible floorspace. Simmons, who is supposed to be helping, is instead sitting in the corner, head in his hands, wheezing in what looks like physical pain.

“You sadistic bastard,” he moans. “The base was _clean_ . The base was dusty and unused and empty but it was _clean_ , and you come in here and _ruined_ it...”

“And now it feels like home,” says Grif.

“No, it feels like it’s going to start reeking like a college dorm in less than two days, and I won’t stand for it,” Simmons says. He reaches across the doorway for a shirt—

“Hey!” Grif says. “Take your shoes off when you come in!”

“Take off my _shoes_? How?! I’m wearing full body armor! I’m not wearing shoes!”

“Do what you did at Blood Gulch,” Grif says, and waves a hand. “Or Rat’s Nest.”

“I never took my shoes off at Blood Gulch. Or Rat’s Nest.”

Grif frowns. “I definitely would have kicked you out if you came into my side of the dorm with shoes on.”

“And I definitely would have remembered if you tried something like that,” Simmons replies.

They pause to think.

“Did you,” Grif says, “ _never_ go to my side of the dorm at Blood Gulch?”

Simmons crosses his arms. Defensively, Grif suspects. “Well, uh, why would I want to go into that pigsty anyway?”

Admittedly, during the five years at Blood Gulch, Grif had perfected the art of anti-Simmons deterrent. Anti… all-of-his-teammates deterrent. But now they’re here, and they’re crossing a bridge they didn’t realize was even a bridge, so better now than before either of them can psych themselves out. “Okay, well, look at what I did--you take off the bottom bits of your boots, and just leave the undersuit on--no, more than that, all that stuff above the ankles, too. That’s how it works here, I don’t make the rules.”

“If you don’t make the rules, who does?”

“Common sense?” Grif says. “C’mon, Simmons, who wears shoes indoors?”

“ _Everyone_?”

“Gross,” Grif says.

Simmons stares at Grif in disbelief. “You have clothes that haven’t been washed in ten years, opened food wrappers, and a mattress with stains on it _already_ , and wearing shoes indoors is too _gross_ for you.”

“If you wear shoes indoors, how are you going to sit on the floor?”

“I won’t,” says Simmons. “I’m going to sit on a chair. Like a normal human being.”

Simmons doesn’t know the joy of rolling oneself into a blanket burrito on the floor. Grif gives him a pitying look.

“Don’t give me that look,” says Simmons, like Grif knew he would, which is why Grif had given him that look in the first place. “The floor is dirty, chairs are better for your--spine, I think?--you can injure your glutes sitting on hard floors for too long—”

“Are you really telling me I’m going to break my _ass_ ?” Grif says. “From prolonged blunt force applied from the _floor_?”

“It’s a real thing!” says Simmons. “I read it in a science… thing!”

“Will you sign my doctor’s note when I tell Sarge I can’t do anything because my ass is broken?” says Grif, and pulls out a bag of Cheetos.

“Stop talking about breaking your ass, please, I don’t miss Donut’s innuendos that much.” Simmons stares at the Cheetos for a moment too long, until he looks away, faintly irritated. “I’m going to unpack the living room,” he says, and moves to leave.

“Wait,” says Grif, before he can think to stop himself or really second-guess whether or not actively attempting to keep Simmons around is a good idea, but Simmons waits, so he’s gotta roll with it. “Okay, don’t tell Sarge, but I pulled some magazines off those guys who confiscated our stuff and gave us our base.”

Grif reaches under his bed and pulls out a stack of magazines and shoves the Cheetos out of sight while he’s at it, because that _might_ be the considerate thing to do? Maybe? Probably? Simmons narrows his eyes. “Grif, if those magazines are what I think they are...”

Grif waggles his eyebrows.

“For god’s sake!” Simmons hisses, glancing over his shoulder as if Sarge could appear any moment. “You can’t just steal some random pilot’s _porn_!”

“I mean, who’s going to stop me, really…”

Simmons snatches one of the magazines. “Wh--this isn’t porn.” He grabs another magazine, absent-mindedly sitting down on the floor next to Grif (with his shoes off, thankfully).

“Ooh, careful,” says Grif, “you’ll break your ass if you sit down too hard.”

“You stole _Nat Geo_ magazines?” Simmons asks in disbelief.

“Are you sure you can’t get your rocks off to beautiful, high-definition, color-coded sandstone layers corresponding with various time periods? The lines are so neat, Simmons. One could say… _pornographically_ neat.”

“Please never speak to me about porn ever again.”

“This is why I don’t know what you’re into, Simmons. Bad communication.”

“I don’t _want_ you to know what I’m into!”

 _So he’s into something_ , Grif thinks, and files it away for no real reason at all, promise, just interesting factoids between good ole teammates, ‘cause that weird stuff you pick up about other people when you’re stuck in a base with them for years, ha ha, amirite? Now change the subject so he doesn’t notice Grif thinking about stuff he’s definitely not thinking about anyway. “Hey, do you think Nat Geo can certify that I can break my ass from sitting on the floor?”

Simmons isn’t listening. “I’ll give you this,” he says. “There is _something_ satisfying about a high-res picture that’s so detailed you can see the pores on an animal.”

“Told you,” says Grif triumphantly. “Like, it’s not porn, but it’s not the worst thing I could swiped from—”

Simmons flips the magazine around to show Grif a two-page spread, larger-than-life, so-detailed-he-can-see-the-pores picture of the hairiest, biggest motherfucking bat Grif’s never seen, and it’s three inches away from Grif’s face. Grif screams.

Simmons snickers for five minutes straight at his own shitty prank and refuses to let Grif tear out the pages. Grif scours every single magazine they have for a picture of a snake to return the favor and not _one_ of the magazines have _anything_ , not even a lizard. Grif’s heart is racing  long after Simmons has put the animal photos away and has begun summarizing aloud an article about a self-reprogramming excavation bot who stakes out animals via active camouflage, which is boring as fuck but it still somehow seems like Grif’s out of breath, that this moment where Simmons is sitting on Grif’s floor, reading science articles in Grif’s room, legs crossed and almost close enough to touch, is the craziest stunt Grif has ever pulled off.

 

* * *

 

 

Grif doesn’t get time. So he’s thirty-three years old, huh? Two whole years since Rat’s Nest; seven whole years since he was deployed to Blood Gulch; ten whole years since he was deployed to that shitty space colony; twelve whole years since he was drafted. A solid third of his life spent in an army and career he didn’t sign up for.

The army’s been crazy, lately. Mostly Blue Team drama, which is nothing new, except for the part where Grif and Simmons almost got killed by firing squad, which was probably entirely their own fault--maybe. Sarge came and dragged them off to kill the Blues, so all three of them might be AWOL, now, but Grif thinks Simmons is probably in denial about that. Washington was a guy who came around and said some mean stuff about them being useless simtroopers that everyone immediately, unanimously, silently, and simultaneously agreed to put a lid on and ignore until they couldn’t anymore, except for Grif, who spends uncomfortably long hours in the middle of the night staring at the ceiling and thinking about the futility of life and all that edgelord shit. The Warthog got totaled by some guy in white armor. Simmons deleted the Blues. Church died, again, and everyone gave too many fucks about it, again.

But if all this stuff is happening, if all these years are passing, how come he feels the same as when he left Oahu? How come he’s just the same schmuck he was when he was fifteen and living in his car, just fatter and wrinklier and uglier and beginning to bald?

He’s been scammed, probably--nothing new there. See, it seems to Grif that people write their stories and poems and essays and big long philosophical treatises on how to live lives, pages and pages of advice, and apparently it all goes to naught because there’s not enough days in a life to read it all, and even if you read it when you’re young you’re _too_ young to really match up the advice with the experience you’ve lived yourself because you haven’t lived enough, and by the time you’ve read it all and are at a proper age to understand it you’re already just as old as those wrinkly-ass douchebags who wrote the damn advice in the first place, and you could have just learned it yourself in the meantime anyway, and then by the time you’ve figured something out from all that understanding and living you did, it’s time to die.

Fuckin’ useless. Waste of time and energy. Learning is such a scam. Growing older is such a scam. Living is such a scam. Grif hates meaningless work. Better to quit before you waste your breath, as he always says.

 

* * *

 

 

“Have you ever seen those photos of nature photographers creeping around, trying to approach an animal?” Simmons asks.

“I thought all the photographers were replaced by bots.”

“Not all of them,” he says. “A lot of animals are smart about machines, and it’s not like we can spare a dumb AI for every robot that wants to take a picture. Maybe we should take a leaf out of their book, next time we attack the Blues. Do a sneak attack.”

“Against Caboose?” Grif asks.

Simmons pauses. “I mean. Theoretically. If there were more Blues.”

“Yeah, see, the difference between sneaking up on an animal and taking sneaking up on the Blues is that the Blues attack you back.”

“It’s supposed to be a toss-up between fight or flight for photographers and animals,” says Simmons. “I read somewhere that once you’re up close to the animal, every single second itself spent that close to a wild animal is doing an impossible feat. Supposed to be an adrenaline rush.”

“Maybe we should take photos of the Blues,” says Grif.

“A whole photoshoot, just for Caboose,” says Simmons.

“Maybe that’ll cheer him up.”

“Maybe he’ll stop skulking around Blue Base and avoiding us.”

“Maybe he’ll actually share all the rations he gets in the supply drops meant for four people,” Grif says.

“Maybe he’d appreciate these Nat Geo magazines more than us.”

“Hey, I stole them, I wanna keep them.”

“You don’t even _want_ them,” says Simmons.

“He can have the one with the bat in it. You can have the ones with the color-coded sandstone gradient photos.”

“So I can _jack off to them_ , is that it? Is that it, Grif?” Simmons says, irritably.

Grif snorts. "'S why I got 'em, isn't it?"

“Because of you and your obsession with _my_ hypothetical obsession with color-coordination and neatly partitioned organization systems, is that it?”

Grif starts sniggering.

“Oh, yes, my name is Dick Simmons,” Simmons mocks in a nasal falsetto, “and I love boxes and datasheets and clipboards and checklists, because Grif is too dumb to come up with literally any other personality traits! And I also love boxes and datasheets with my _dick_ , because Grif has no imagination so he thinks everyone loves boners just as much as he does!”

“I don’t love boners,” says Grif. “Boners are an _art_. I live and breathe boners, Simmons. I’m a boner connoisseur. I won’t be mixed with the boner-loving plebs. And you, Simmons, you boner pleb, definitely don’t appreciate boners as much as I do.”

“Bullshit,” says Simmons, who apparently can never walk his pasty, muscle-less ass away from a challenge. “You said it yourself. I’m a rules-loving, glue-sniffing teacher’s pet who can never resist a good organization system. You could never defeat this monster you’ve created, Grif. Thanks to you, my dick is always hard for—”

Sarge is standing frozen in the doorway. Neither Grif nor Simmons asks how much Sarge just heard, because it appears, to no one’s surprise, that it was exactly all the wrong parts.

“Oh fuck wait,” Simmons says, “it’s not what it sounds like--"

Sarge spins right around and leaves.

“SAAAAAAAAAAARGE,” Simmons wails.

Grif tunes him out almost instantaneously. See, Grif has bigger fish to fry, now. Grif is always on the lookout for new ways serve himself. New entertainment, new money-laundering, new hobbies, new napping spots. And that, right there? Grif is almost certain he saw Sarge look _uncomfortable_.

The scent of _exploitable weakness_.

“Ohhhh, no,” Simmons moans.

Oh, _yes_ , Grif thinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **me, wearing a ripped nightgown, mascara smudged and pearls clutched, crying** : please…… i have a wife and kids…… have mercy i beg of y
> 
>  **this story** : A D D G R I F ' S P O V


	24. Rubber Seduction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m not flirting to get our way with our radio."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yall getting this chapter MEGA early because i gotta be up in two hours to go to work and i am NOT gonna remember to post this shit during my morning routine. enjoy

“Sarge! Good to see you, sir!” Simmons chirps, as soon as he musters up the courage to walk into the kitchen and show his face to Sarge. “How are you, sir? I was, just asking for, you know, no reason whatsoever, but if there was a reason it’d be that I thought that maybe s-something from earlier could do with, some, maybe, some team discussion--some clarification, just so we're all a hundred percent clear that earlier conversations were not misunderstood or taken out of context to the detriment of anyone's reputati--”

Sarge throws three sets of cooked MRE bags down on the kitchen table. The bags are labelled “spaghetti and meat sauce.” Grif grabs the salt, and also the stick of butter, because he’s figured out ages ago how to make MREs palatable, and gets to work transferring rubber noodles from their bag to a plastic plate. (Can’t go wrong with salt, sugar, and fat, and preferably all three at the same time.)

“Correct, Private!” Sarge declares. “This is a high-alert situation, and communication is key to successful teamwork!”

If there's any time to talk to Sarge about something important, it's after 5PM, when he's already gotten most of his anti-Blue fervor out of his system at some point during the day. "After hours," during dinner period, when Sarge has already traded in his shotgun for a cup of black coffee (what an old man) and put his glasses on for his farsightedness (seriously, what an old man), is by far the least fanatical that Sarge can be, and the closest to a normal conversation that anyone will be able to hold with him.

And here they are, with Sarge vaguely tired from being up at 4AM sharp and in his glasses and microwaving MREs and the best chance they could have at a human interaction with him, and Grif will bet you anything that Sarge is going to tell them that he's still somehow convinced he has to call in an air strike on Caboose's ass right this moment, because Sarge is literally incapable of shutting the fuck up and letting them all have anything resembling "after work hours."

“High alert!” says Grif, with as much mock surprise as he can muster. “Is someone dying? Oh, is the dead person Donut agai—”

“Even more dire,” Sarge interrupts.

“What’s more dire than Donut dying again?” Grif asks.

Sarge begins ticking off fingers: “Stubbing my toe, Donut running out of moisturizer, running out of strawberry yoohoos, no mantle for me to mount my Chekov’s gun, temperatures above eighty degrees except when the weatherman colors the numbers red, jaywalking—”

“--incorrect assumptions about certain people’s sexualities—” Simmons interrupts.

“Sorry, wrong question,” says Grif. “What’s _less_ dire than Donut dying?”

“Church dying,” Simmons says promptly.

There’s a round of muttered agreements. Grif, after liberally salting and buttering his spaghetti, passes the salt. Simmons takes it. Grif passes the butter. Simmons looks at it like Grif’s passed him a live rat. Grif, rather than let the butter sit on the table where Sarge might pick it up and make his food palatable, opts to actually _stand up_ and put the stick away just to spite Sarge, and Sarge doesn’t even seem to notice, the old bastard. Sarge could be eating wood chips and sriracha and he probably wouldn’t notice. Simmons is pushing the rubber spaghetti around the plastic plate.

“But Donut dying has to be at least _mildly_ dire, because if Donut is dead,” Grif says, “then we’ll have to give a eulogy, and then we’ll have to talk about _feelings_.”

The temperature of the room drops a fraction.

“Out loud,” Grif says. “With our mouths.”

Simmons visibly shudders.

“And _words_ ,” Grif adds.

With valiant effort, Sarge says, at length: “I maintain that our current situation is _even more dire_.”

“Now I know you’re bullshitting me,” says Grif.

“I have reports, with my own two eyes,” says Sarge, “that there’s live _Blue activity_ in the immediate vicinity.”

Yep, there it is. Simmons stops playing with his food and bites on his lip hard, like he’s trying not to laugh.

“Just over there, at the base clearly marked ‘Blue Base’!” Sarge says, scandalized.

Oh, great, now Sarge is going senile, too.

“Sir, would this Blue activity happen to be, uh...” Simmons glances at Grif. “...the Blue we _helped_ move into that Base just last week? Y’know… _Caboose_?”

“Which one is that?” Sarge asks.

“Uh, well, there was only three Blues in Blood Gulch—”

“Plus Tex,” adds Grif.

“And Sister,” says Simmons.

“And Lopez’s body,” says Grif.

“And Andy the bomb,” says Simmons.

“And Tucker’s kid,” says Grif.

“And that Flowers guy,” says Simmons.

“And sometimes Simmons,” says Grif.

“For like, _one_ hour, Grif!”

“And Sheila,” Grif says.

“Speaking of Sheila,” says Simmons, “Caboose is the one who—”

“ALL THESE BLUES WITH THEIR DARN NAMES TO REMEMBER,” Sarge interrupts. “ALL THESE NAMES. IT’S LIKE THERE’S A NAME FOR EVERY BLUE.”

“Yes, sir,” says Simmons, “that’s generally how names work—”

“THE BLUE IN VALHALLA IS A LIVING BLUE AND THAT’S ALL THAT MATTERS,” Sarge declares.

“Sarge, you’re the one who paired up with Caboose when we went through the portal to—”

“Oh, _him_?” Sarge says. “Jesús? Michael Jesús?”

“Who’s _Michael Jesús_?” Grif asks in disbelief.

“The one who hates taxes and babies,” says Sarge. “Very odd boy, but can’t say I blame him! Downright lethals, some of those--all those teeth and eyes and tentacles...”

“Er,” says Grif, “neither taxes nor babies have—”

“Those darn babies and taxes,” says Simmons, the fucking kiss-ass.

“Simmons knows! But a living Blue is still a Blue who’s up to no good!” Sarge interrupts. “So long as he continues to persist with his color-coded ways, he remains a threat to us, to our team, to our base, to the Red cause, to all that we hold dear and red! Like apple pie, and most of our laundry, and blood!”

Grif squints. “Apple pie isn’t—”

“Sarge, can you _please_ separate your reds from our light-colored laundry,” Simmons says.

“I could, Private Simmons,” says Sarge.

Simmons waits. Sarge takes a bite of his rubber spaghetti.

“So are you, uh,” Simmons asks, “ _going_ to…?”

Sarge takes another bite of spaghetti.

“Christ,” says Grif, and stands up and takes his plate with him to the couch to fiddle with the radio. (And Simmons wonders why Grif never does his damn laundry.) Sitting at a dining table in a formal setting always gives him hives, anyway; the best place to eat dinner is in a living room in front of a TV, in his opinion, so nobody has to look at or talk to each other. What? The American nuclear family is bullshit, anyway.

“We’re reintroducing morning patrols at six-hundred hours starting tomorrow!” Sarge announces. “I need as much intelligence on the situation over there as we can get! Tomorrow, men, we’re going to war! No information gone undocumented, all knowledge is power, you know!”

“Are there any particular forms we should fill out when we’ve come back from patrol, sir?” Simmons asks.

Grif groans as loudly and as exaggeratedly as possible.

“Minimum twenty pages,” Sarge says. “Submit it to Lopez. He needs new material to wipe up oil spills with.”

Simmons sighs. The radio crackles.

“I need to know names, faces, dates of birth, I want to know their weapons and the layout of their base—”

“Sarge, we were _in_ that base seven days ago,” says Simmons. “We know that base down to where Caboose’s _coffee maker_ is.”

“A diabolical plot,” Sarge cries. “Everyone knows that boy doesn’t drink coffee!”

“I’m sure he’s convincing the coffee maker to turn into a Red-killing Decepticon as we speak,” says Grif.

“Precisely! Excellent thinking, Private, er…” Sarge’s face screws up in bewilderment. “...Grif…?”

Everyone experiences the simultaneous feeling of the earth tilting into directions unknown and ill-advised from the sheer weight of Sarge having said something positive about Private Dexter Grif.

“Hey, Simmons, come turn our radio into an Autobot,” says Grif, to off-set the vertigo and restore balance to the universe.

“I don’t think that’s how radios work,” Simmons says.

“Not with _that_ attitude.”

“You couldn’t even wait until tomorrow to corrupt my only workable soldier, could you, Grif?” Sarge snaps.

Grif gives Sarge his loveliest smile. Sarge pulls his shotgun out of nowhere and puts it on the table space now vacated by Simmons, like the fucking authoritarian toolbag that he is. Simmons brings over his plate too and sits on the couch. Grif glances back at Sarge, who’s still sitting resolutely at the kitchen table alone, where he meticulously spears each forkful of spaghetti and chews it like he’s not even paying attention to the flavor. Christ, he even eats like an old man. Grif wonders how long it’ll take for Sarge to reach “toast and tea” syndrome.

Simmons lowers his voice and whispers, “Do you think we can get Lopez to turn our radio into an transformer like Caboose’s coffee machine?”

“Probably. Lopez is already half Transformer already.”

Simmons scowls. “Lopez is too mean to be an Autobot. He’d convert our radio into a Decepticon.”

Grif polishes off the last of his rubber spaghetti. Simmons has barely touched his. Grif, for no reason at all, begins to tap his fork against his plate, which earns an irritated glare from Simmons, so Grif turns to bouncing his leg, but then he stops that too because that’s a nervous Simmons thing to do and there’s only enough room for one of those around here. He’d offer to finish the plate for Simmons, but he’d really rather Simmons eat the thing himself, and it’s a lot easier to ask to finish someone’s plate than it is to ask them to finish their own plate--

“You two better be working on intercepting Blue transmissions over there,” Sarge warns.

Simmons nearly drops the plate. “Oh! Uh, yes, sir. That’s entirely what we were doing. Very seriously. With science. And computers. And computer science.”

“Who knows what Blue Command’s got up their sleeve now,” says Sarge. “We’ve got new bases, new terrain, possibly new mission objectives altogether! Do they even still have a flag? What’s up with that waterfall? And those anti-grav flinger-majingers? We need answers, men, or our very lives will be in peril tomorrow on the battlefield—"

Grif groans. Sarge _never shuts up_.

“Yeah, we were just gonna sweet talk the radio a little bit,” says Grif. “Always works for Caboose, right? The radio might give us the Blue frequency if we ask nicely.”

“That’s not how machines work,” Simmons says.

“Sure they do,” says Grif. “Watch. Simmons,” says Grif, very seriously.

“What?”

Grif looks Simmons in the eye. “I’m going to ask you to do something, and you have to do it while working yourself up into a huge irritated snit over it.”

“And why would I do that? Wh--what do you mean, _huge irritated snit_ ? I don’t work myself into a _snit_ . Certainly not a _huge, irritated_ snit. I don’t--I don’t. Do I? What are you trying to say, Grif? Why should I do anything for you if you think I’m just going to work myself up into a _snit_ over--”

“See?” says Grif, and puts his arm back down across the back of the couch. “Simmons is one-eighth robot, and all I had to do was ask nicely, and now he’s in a huge irritated snit.”

“Oh, shut the fuck up,” says Simmons, and goes back to fiddling with the radio, which Grif doesn’t even bother responding to, because:

Oh, _fuck yes_ , he just pulled off the “reach over and put arm around date while pretending you’re stretching” maneuver. He is the _Fucking King_ of shitty high school rom-coms, except that they’re not, like, on a date, because no date will ever or could ever have Sarge right fucking there.

Except that Sarge is eighty percent the best part of this moment, because Sarge is staring at Grif’s arm stretched across the back of the couch, _almost_ touching Simmons’s shoulders, like Grif’s put a live snake in the living room.

Grif looks back at Sarge. He’s probably going to die at any moment, he thinks. Simmons is going to turn around and it’s going to get awkward real fast and then they’ll have to do the song and dance to make it not awkward, and it’ll be a ton of work and vaguely tedious unless they can manage to entertain themselves, which they always, somehow, do. But oh my _god_ , is it _worth it_ to see Sarge’s face right now.

“What were you saying about the flag, Sarge?” Simmons asks.

“Er,” says Sarge.

“Yeah, Sarge, what were you saying?” asks Grif, bright and chipper and earnest.

Sarge shoves the last of his spaghetti into his mouth and books it to the sink to wash off his plate. “Just--leave the radio to Lopez,” he mutters.

Grif scoots one inch closer to Simmons on the couch, _just_ into the Uncomfortably Close Personal Space. Simmons doesn’t notice. Grif is keenly aware of his own mortality and the impending death of his entire relationship with Simmons.

Sarge says, “Harrghgmgnghgjrrhhghgffffffffffffff,” which Grif thinks was supposed to be one of his patented Sarge Harrumphs, but it sounds more like he’s swallowed a fishbone and would rather die than let Grif give him first aid.

“C’mon, we see Caboose sweet-talk machines all the time,” says Grif. “Simmons’s just got to add some pizzazz to it, and the radio will totally spit out some valuable intel. Add some emotion, you know? Bat his eyelashes, maybe? It’s called _seduction_ , Simmons.”

“Hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhrrrhhhhhhhrhrhff,” says Sarge.

“I’m not _flirting_ to get our way with our radio,” Simmons says.

“You’d flirt with other things to get your way?” Grif asks, before he can stop himself.

“MORNINGPATROLATOHSIXHUNDREDGOODNIGHT,” Sarge says loudly and hoofs it to the door.

Simmons cries, “Wait, Sarge, what about morning training or room inspection or—?!” but Sarge is _gone_ , just like that, absconded the _fuck_ out of there with speeds that impresses even Grif, coward and retreatist extraordinaire. Speaking of, Grif shoots right up from the couch to wash his plate and get the hell out of Simmons’s personal space. Simmons notices nothing. Everything is a resounding success.

“What was all that?” Simmons asks, sounding genuinely clueless. “He was going on about the Blue threat, and then it was like he just completely lost his train of thought…?”

“Beats me!” says Grif cheerfully, spraying water across his plate.

“I didn’t even get to tell him that I don’t love boners,” says Simmons sadly.

“A real shame,” says Grif.

Simmons squints suspiciously at him.

“Whatever it is you think I did, you can’t prove anything,” says Grif.

Simmons only squints harder.

Grif shoves his plate and utensils into the drying rack, flops back down on the couch with a pack of saltine crackers, and tries his best not to look like a smug fat cat. “Well, now we don’t have to listen to him give shitty vague orders about ‘try harder to win the war’ and junk like that.”

“I still don’t know what you did,” says Simmons, “but I can definitely prove it, and I’m going to.”

“Oh boy, do I get a twenty page report too?”

“Nice try. You were demoted ages ago,” Simmons scoffs. He dumps most of his uneaten spaghetti in the trash, shoves his dishes in the sink, and leaves for the single-stalled bathroom down the hall.

Grif blinks.

He looks around at the empty living space. Looks at Simmons’s unwashed dishes in the sink. Looks at the closed bathroom door. He has the sudden feeling that he’s, somehow, fallen for an illusion, hook line and sinker, and he still doesn’t know how.


	25. Bedroom Talks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here's what Grif knows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for bad head times, specifically references towards possible suicide

“Well, I’m tired,” says Grif. “Night.”

Simmons is sitting on the common room couch, tapping his finger, obviously bored and wanting to do something but also shit out of anything to entertain himself. “Yeah, okay,” he says. His voice is clipped. More antsy than Grif had guessed, or maybe just more antsy now that Grif hadn’t offered to be the entertainment.

Grif pretends he doesn’t see. Grif pretends he has no idea that Simmons's knuckles are bleeding and that he can smell something funny from the single-stalled bathroom. Instead, Grif retreats to his room. Shuts his bedroom door. Dumps armor on the floor. Strips out of his suit. Hits the lights. Crawls into bed. Pulls the blankets up to his chin. Looks up at the ceiling.

He does not close his eyes.

He waits.

 

* * *

 

 

_Whatever it is, it’s, y’know, whatever. Like, it doesn’t matter to me what it is, right?_

_I was just, um, wondering if I should be worrying._

 

* * *

 

 

State-mandated Health Ed classes take place at the end of the day on Wednesdays during sophomore year of high school, during which time Dex is regularly skipping all classes after eleven in the morning to deliver pizzas for Domino’s, and the school counselor who’d said that getting a high school diploma was “integral to his future opportunities” could suck it because future opportunities mean jack shit when you’ve barely got maybe a quarter of a _current_ opportunity. Ninety-nine percent of what he knows about the physical human body comes from WikiHow. He, somehow, missed the memo that he should have WikiHow’d the human _head_ , as if the brain were an organ that could develop a dysfunction like a kidney or a liver; as if the place where a person’s self _lived_ could corrode and corrupt like bad lines of code.

Here’s what Grif knows:

Kai comes home one night with half a box of chicken katsu and spam musubis that she’d made for the potluck and slammed the screen door behind her, because that shit was broke as hell anyway. “Taylor didn’t eat _any_ of of my food,” she complains. “I think she’s on a _diet_ or something. Like she isn’t already a skinny bitch?”

“More leftovers for us,” Dex says. He wasn’t really listening.

“Koji thinks she’s becoming anorexic,” Kai complains. “Like those super old commercials where the ugly girl looks in the mirror and sees a fat person.”

“Wow. Awful,” Dex says. Still not listening.

“More like it’s fuckin’ _annoying_!” Kai says loudly, and huffs off to the shower.

Here’s what Grif knows:

Kai grins, her lips shiny with vomit and the air rank with the smell of vodka and sour orange juice. “Kalena says that--that if you throw it up, you’ll feel better. Because of endorphins?” she said.  “Yo, uh, Dex, what’s--what’s an endorphin?”

She bursts into happy giggles. Flecks of bile hit his cheek. Dex turns away.

Here’s what Grif knows:

“I had to do, like, a school project about binge eating and food addiction?” Kai said. She’s still texting on her phone, tongue poking out of one side of her mouth in concentration. “And I’m like, uh, yeah, we’re all addicted to food, have you heard that I eat like three times a day, sometimes more, that I _need_ food to live or I go through withdrawal, which is called _starvation_ , EL-EM-AY-OH. Have you ever heard of something so fucking stupid as being addicted to _food_?”

“Please tell me you didn’t write ‘have you ever heard of something so fucking stupid’ on a piece of paper and turn that in,” Dex said.

“Nah, that due date was like, three weeks ago.” She looked up from her phone. “But that’s a _great_ idea!”

Dex is flipping through _Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian_ , skimming paragraphs about some haole chick getting caught puking in the bathroom. It’s not relevant to the other two-hundred and fifty pages of some Native-American kid attending the Seattle version of Punahou. It’s never mentioned again. The counselor says the book was supposed to be relatable to “indigenous peoples.” He loses his copy and forgets to write his assigned essay.

Simmons is opening the door from the single-stalled bathroom around the back of the Rat’s Nest armory. Grif is surprised, but not worried. There are no worrying reasons that Grif knows about that would make a man throw up before noon that don’t involve alcohol, and he knows that’s not Simmons’s poison. He thinks he’ll give Simmons a hard time about whatever it is later. There’s no reason not to, after all.

Kai is laughing, bright like the sun across the ocean. “Me, go to _rehab_ !” she shrieked, and slaps her knee at the funniest joke she’s ever heard. Kai’s homeroom teacher appears to immediately regret opening her mouth. “Shit, bitch, vodka’s a fuckload cheaper than therapy _and_ food, okay?” She taps her head, giggling. “I stay akamai, Ms Watanabe, like you said I do--”

Simmons is curling his lip and wrinkling his nose and probably thinking about how to get away with murder because Private Prissy “Douchefuck” Sissy doesn’t have the human decency to look contrite when his CO is kicking his ass. “Private Simmons and I are just eating lunch,” Sissy says through gritted teeth, to which Grif retorts without thinking at all: “Yeah, Private Simmons looks real hungry,” and then Grif freezes and Simmons freezes and Simmons wilts, and Grif knows it’s because Grif knows something he’s not supposed to and he can’t _unknow_ it, whatever it is, even if the only thing he knows is that some great unnameable _something_ has gone wrong enough that Simmons thinks _he_ , as a _person_ , has gone wrong. Grif doesn’t know how to disprove him. He doesn’t even know what he’s disproving. The only person on Red Team equipped to formulate a cohesive argument with sourced evidence and proofs is, actually, Simmons.

Dex is opening the cupboards of his mother’s apartment and the bag slips and scatters rice across the wood. Mom left it _open_ again, the fucking ditz; there’s ants crawling through the shoyu stains leaking from the cracked bottle and into the rice bag. He shuts the cupboard. Goes back to his and Kai’s bedroom and buries his head under his pillow. Nothing to be done about that.

Ms Watanabe lifts her glasses from her face and rubs at her eyes. “These issues do, ah, tend to run in families, Dexter. Some people say it’s more likely to be passed down through fathers, but the reality is that mothers are equally likely to—”

Simmons is standing in the wreckage of a bathroom mirror. Grif is trying not to stare, but there’s a fuckload of glass and a bit of blood and Grif knows that _somebody’s_ got to clean it up, and he really doesn’t want it to be him, Grif only got up to piss in the middle of the night and he really doesn’t deserve to get involved in this kind of drama and Simmons takes a step towards him and Grif just turns around and _runs_ out of the bathroom back to his room because _only fucking lunatics go around punching bathroom mirrors in the middle of the night_ and Grif does not intend to be caught in an enclosed space with someone with such a little grasp on his temper that he’d lash out with his fists like a two-year-old child. Grif locks the door behind him and swears up and down that Simmons is--Simmons is--it’s a bad idea, okay-- _Simmons_ is a bad, bad idea, full stop, and Grif just needs to do his time and maybe try to get dishonorably discharged and go the fuck home--he really just wants to go home, and promises himself that that’s all he’ll ever want from this fucking military.

“Am I?” Washington says, voice as balanced and even as a knife. “Think about it. Name one thing that ever happened to you that wasn’t directly preceded by Command calling you, or sending someone to your base.” Nobody moves. Washington tilts his head. “ _One_ thing.”

“These are not answers I have, Dexter,” says Ms Watanabe. “I don’t know how much of a person is predetermined by genetics or social-economic status. I can’t answer these questions for you. And I don’t think anyone can.”

Grif ticks off his fingers: “The Flowers guy died from aspirin, the Church guy died from Caboose, the Tex chick died from—” and Simmons interrupts with, “ _We_ killed a man in Basic within two hours of meeting each other.” Grif snorts: “Yeah, whatever,” Grif says, but he still makes a sign of the cross for Hammer, even though he hasn’t been to church in five million years, because the _least_ he can do is respect the little old Korean ladies from the Christian-Baptist church across Makiki District Park. Grif doesn’t know jack shit, but he knows that Mrs Ok-yeong Yi deserves to have her prayers heard.

“ _One_ thing,” Washington says. Nothing to be done about that.

“At least I _know_ my taste in people is shitty!” Kai retorts. “Unlike _you_ !” Dex says, “My taste in people isn’t _shitty_.” Kai bursts out laughing.

Dex’s mother tells him two pieces of advice, neither of which she’ll ever follow: 1) Never turn your back on the ocean, and 2) never rescue a drowning person. _Well, what am I supposed to do if I see someone drowning in the ocean?_ Dex demands. _I can’t look away, I can’t help them--am I supposed to just watch them drown?_ She frowns plaintively, like a child wearing bright red lipstick and six-inch heels. _How am I supposed to know_ ? she complains. _It’s only what my father told me, Dextie._ She hesitates. _Well, I think he…_ And Dex perks up and asks, _What?_ But then she thinks, then shakes her head: _Ai-ya, can’t remember. Must not’ve been important!_

Simmons salutes. “Of course, sir, I’ll get on it right away, sir!” he chirps. “Every detail, every _thing_ is of utmost importa—”

(Grif suspects that when he has--well, that’s not a certainty anymore, he supposes, not with the way his life is going. _If_ he has kids, he’d only be able to pass on the second rule: Never rescue a drowning person. No point in learning to never turn your back on the ocean if he never makes it back to O’ahu, is there? Nothing to be done about that.)

Nothing to be done about—

(Are you sure?)

Grif is sure. (Grif isn’t sure.) Nothing to be done about anything. Nothing to be changed. No way, no how. No can, no can.

_Simmons is staring at the Cheetos in Grif’s room, and Grif just got Simmons through the door and he’ll be fucking damned if a pack of Cheetos is going to scare him off but what the hell is this? Why does Simmons look at every plate like it’ll bite, enter every kitchen like he’s ready to fight, leave like an animal ready to chew a leg off to squirm out of a beartrap if only he can get to the bathroo--_

That doesn’t make sense. Simmons wouldn’t do... that. He never said he does... _that_ . (Grif doesn’t know what he knows. Big surprise.) Simmons said: _I threw up on purpose. It’s just a thing that happens sometimes_ . That doesn’t mean anything. The single halogen light, in the dark of the empty Rat’s Nest tunnels, two of them waiting for Caboose, Simmons said: _Of course I’m okay_.

(It doesn’t have to make sense. _I was just, um, wondering if I should be worrying._ )

(Something _also_ tells Grif that this--whatever this is-- _Simmons_ in particular needs to start _making_ sense--by force if need be--or--or…)

(It doesn’t have to make sense. _Whatever it is, it’s, y’know, whatever. Like, it doesn’t matter to me what it is, right?_ )

( _I was just, um, wondering if you needed… if I could… if you’d let me… if there’s anything I could do, if there was—_ )

Nothing to be done. And nothing makes sense. Grif knows that.

It does—

It doesn’t—

( _It matters—_ )

(What if they have to make it make sense? And then what if they _have_ to do something, Or Else? What if it matters? And at the end of all this, _there’s still nothing to be done_?)

Does it matter?

Does it _really_?

( _Waste of time and energy. Learning is such a scam. Growing older is such a scam. Living is such a scam. Grif hates meaningless work. Better to quit before you waste your--_ )

 _What’s the point? What does it matter? Can you say why? Is there a reason you’re alive? Is there a reason Simmons is alive? Why are we here? Is there a reason you give a damn? Is there a point to that, either? What does_ he _matter? What does it matter what he does with his food? What does it matter where you are today? Where you are tomorrow? A year, in ten years, in fifty? Could you say why you’re there instead of here? Does it matter? Does it matter, being here? Is there a_ point _to you being here? Is this another scam? Another lie? Do you have answers? Are there answers? If you have them, where did you go? Why aren’t you here? Why am I here? Why am I here with Simmons? Why Sarge? Why Caboose? Why not Church? Why not Kai? Do any of them matter? Does it really matter if Grif hasn’t heard from Kai in years? What’s a few feelings? What’s a few humans? What are_ all _humans? Why are we, the royal we, here? What’s Grif to the entirety of the human race? What’re we to the entirety of the universe? Why now? Why them? Why us? Why here? Why are we here? Why are we here? Why are we here? Why are we here?  Why are we—_

( _Living is such a scam. Grif hates meaningless work. Better to quit, quit, q--_ )

Simmons cracks open the door.

“Psst!” he hisses. “Wake up!”

Grif groans, because oh, _fuck_ Grif. He rolls over. The bedside clock says five-thirty-one. He closes his eyes for the first time that night. His eyes feel dry and papery.

“‘m awake,” he mumbles.

“You don’t sound awake.”

Grif scrubs at his face with a hand. “‘M, mmfg, more ‘f a night owl...”

Simmons rolls his eyes. “Owls are completely nocturnal and never even shut their eyes at night, let alone sleep,” he says, turns on the overhead light, and shuts the door.

Grif moans and buries his face into the pillow to hide from the bright light. Even now, exhausted and feeling like he’s been run over by a truck, he doesn’t feel sleepy. He doesn’t feel like he slept at all. He probably didn’t. Yeah, _definitely_ fuck him.

“Like I don’t know what a fuckin’ owl is,” Grif tells his pillow grumpily, and peels the blankets off to get on with his life and patrol for some goddamn Blues.


	26. Uncooperative Underachievers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Simmons is in mortal danger!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if it's not clear, as of season 7 ep 2, simmons basically becomes a surly teenager because of sarge's decisions, which is the event that i'm referencing. it's probably the only canon moment im keeping from season 7 lmao

Grif wakes up expecting hell on earth and instead finds Simmons’s peaceful, sleeping face an arm’s length to Grif’s right. Holy shit. Grif is dreaming.

“Uh, no, please come back,” says Caboose’s voice. “Sleeping is for nighttime, and also on mattresses.”

\--this is not usually how the dream goes.

“And also you’re supposed to sleep alone, not together,” Caboose adds.

“ _Jesus_ ,” Simmons says, sounding scandalized. “Could you word that just a _little_ differently?”

“It’s in the rules,” says Caboose reproachfully.

“We’re changing the rules,” says Simmons, glaring at Caboose.

Caboose puts his hands on his hips and Grif can feel him glaring right back through the visor. “Well, you can’t, because Church made them and they’re better than Tucker’s rules and I’m not allowed to make rules,” he said. “And also the shouty Red pirate captain is looking for you so you can look for me, so he gave me orders which _he’s not allowed to do_ because I am Blue and he is Red except he can tell me what to do just this once because I think he becomes more shouty when he’s lonely so please go back before he becomes sad that his team is gone.”

Simmons makes the verbal equivalent of an eyeroll.

“Oh, fffffffucking—okay, _fine_ ,” Grif says, “we live to serve Sarge’s delicate feelings and all that shit…”

“Simon?” Caboose prompts.

And Simmons opens one eye, sticks his pasty, sunburnt haole nose in the air, and says, “Sarge can _suck it_.”

This is _really_ not how the dream goes but, like--Grif's not complaining?

 

* * *

 

 

Grif drags himself over to Red Base expecting yet more hell on earth. Here's what happened:

When Grif had woken up that morning, Sarge and Simmons were planning an assault on Caboose’s base. Except that then Grif realized that hey, wow, “fighting” just Caboose would be _way_ better than fighting literally any real enemy, and they’d really hit the jackpot with Valhalla, so he could drag his groggy, exhausted, sleep-deprived ass to somewhere quiet and nappable with assurance that he could safely slack off for the foreseeable future.

And then Simmons gets upset because he wanted to, y'know, actually do something worthwhile with his life, and now they can't even fight the  _Blues_ in their shitty fake war because Grif's convinced Sarge to hold off on the attack until they can get Command to re-enter the Blues into their database, and now:

Now Grif wakes up in the middle of the afternoon to go coddle Sarge’s whims while Simmons mutters about goddamn Sarge and Sarge's shitty leadership skills and Sarge's inability to launch a proper grumble grumble mumble mumble, and Simmons rolls over and takes the shady spot that Grif had been occupying, the shade-hogging bastard, because _someone's_ been hit hard with the demoralization blues while Grif goes off to babysit both Sarge's and Simmons's big and bruised Man Feelings. Right now his Priority One is to get back to sleep, and the Obstacle One standing in between him and that is Sarge, so off he goes with Caboose to get Sarge off his ass.

(Obstacle Two between Grif and his napping tree is what the fuck is Simmons doing, just deciding to take a nap next to him like they’re an old married couple. Is Simmons trying to kill him. Is this some kind of joke. Fucking Private Leonard “Main Character” Church _himself_ said no sleeping together. No crossing lines. No ambiguous comments about changing rul—)

“Private Grif!” Sarge hollers the instant Grif comes into sight. “Why were you napping?!”

Because Grif stayed awake all night fixating on dumb shit. “Because of who I am as a rebellious, uncooperative underachiever, Sarge,” says Grif.

“A suspiciously correct answer, Grif,” Sarge says. “And why is Simmons napping?”

Because Simmons has abruptly decided to become a rebellious, uncooperative underachiever. Also because serving under Sarge is a morale-sucking karmic punishment. “He probably stayed awake all night fixating on dumb shit, sir,” says Grif.

“Needs some shut-eye, does he? TOO BAD," Sarge says. "We can’t launch an attack against the Blue forces with only two men! Caboose, you didn’t hear all that vital information about the state of our army.”

“Wow! How did you know?” Caboose asks.

“Now someone get Simmons!” Sarge barks.

Sarge looks at Caboose. Caboose shakes his head and says, “No, thank you. I’m Blue.”

“Private Grif!” says Sarge.

“No, thank you,” says Grif. “I’m orange.”

Sarge cocks his shotgun.

 

* * *

 

 

Grif stomps up to Simmons, expecting hell and a fight, and says: “Sarge wants to know if you want to lay siege to Caboose’s base by sitting in the hot sun for eighteen hours straight.”

“But I can’t,” says Simmons, whose attempts to remain completely calm and unperturbed are foiled by the irritated scowl on his face. “I’m sleeping.”

Grif is trying really hard not to snort. Okay, hang on a second--he might  _really_ be okay with grumpy, cranky, demoralized, pissbaby Simmons.

“You’re talking to me, Simmons," he says. "You’re awake.”

“Zzzzzzz," says Simmons.

“That's just you saying a ‘Z’ noise like a fucking bumblebee.”

“I have a sleeping condition. I’m very sensitive about it,” says Simmons.

Grif thinks about this. “This is plausible and I completely believe you and your bald-faced lies,” says Grif.

There's a pause. They look at each other. Grif feels like he's going to bust a lung from the effort of not laughing.

Simmons starts giggling.

 

* * *

 

 

“You broke Simmons, Sarge,” Grif reports, and is very glad that his helmet is hiding his huge, unrepentant shit-eating grin. “He doesn’t want to work, and it sounds like it's aaaaaaaall your fault!”

“Me? Break Simmons? Nonsense! Everyone knows I can do no wrong in Simmons’s eyes; that’s the whole point of him!” Sarge says. “If anything, Simmons was fine up until _you_ said that whole thing about us deleting the Blues and not getting any credit for eliminating their forces in Valhalla and dragging out this fight for the interminable future!”

“So it’s _my_ fault?” Grif says in disbelief, and holds up his hands. “You guys were the ones who deleted the Blues! I’m just saying the truth!” He holds up his hands as if this nonsense about not defeating the Blues until they’ve been re-entered into the system is not the best lie Grif has ever told. It is, in fact, the best lie Grif has ever told, but it’s not only a lie, it’s also _completely true_ from Sarge’s point of view.

(And besides, Simmons didn’t get all moody until Sarge started being a megalomaniacal asshole. It _is_ Sarge's fault.)

Sarge is doing his old man squint from behind his helmet. “Just you claiming to tell the truth makes me suspicious,” Sarge says.

“I lied and everything I’ve ever said is only a con to serve myself and my hedonistic whims,” Grif recites.

“Better,” says Sarge. “Now that that’s established, your point about needing to accumulate more Blues to annihilate is excellent and truthful!”

“Good to hear,” says Grif. “Well, since that's a wrap, I’m going off to help Caboose set up his base in preparation for the new incoming Blues—”

“No you’re not,” says Caboose.

Dammit, that was prime napping space. “Okay, I’m not,” says Grif. “Then, uh, I’m off to help Lopez with—”

“No you’re not,” says Sarge. “We’re still a man down! If we're accumulating more Blues, we need to accumulate more Reds! You’re getting Simmons out of this moody funk and back on his feet!”

“I already _did_ that!”

“Do it again! And don’t suck at it this time!” says Sarge. “By god, saying all these neutral to vaguely positive things to you is giving me a hernia! You get Simmons back here and in ass-kissing shape on the double so I can abuse my authority without my intestines falling out!”

 

* * *

 

 

Grif flops back on the grass and groans. Simmons is shredding grass and dumping it on a tiny mountain of grass shreds. 

"Enjoying your new, demotivationalized, purposeless, inconsequential life?" Grif asks.

"It's not new," says Simmons, "but it is a party." And he dumps the shredded grass on Grif's head. Grif shrieks.

 

* * *

 

 

"Just go get him yourself," Grif tells Sarge, now feeling smug as fuck because holy shit Simmons is _not giving up_. Oh, this is _rich_. "Maybe explain yourself and your leadership decisions to do absolutely nothing with his military career to him. Be honest with each other. Have a bonding moment. 

"Eeueugghggheghghgghghghghfhfffhhgh," says Sarge.

Yeah, okay, in Sarge's defense: same.

"Honesty sounds like a great idea," says Caboose.

"Go back to your base, Blue, before we catch your ability to have openly emotional conversations," Grif says.

Sarge harrumphs. "Simmons will come around. He's disappointed that we can't kill Caboose yet, but we have to keep the end goal in mind! We can't just go around killing Blues willy-nilly if we won't get credit on the records for it! If he just cooperated, we could get Command to add the Blues back in to the database in no time!"

"A stupendous plan, sir," says Grif. They're going to be here doing nothing for  _years_. 

"You keep working on Simmons, Grif," Sarge orders. "It might take a long time... it might take weeks or months, but--"

“Sure,” says Grif.

“Dammit, Grif, I know it's a hard sell, but don’t make me—” Sarge stops. “What? Really?”

“Yeah, sure,” says Grif. “I love spending _quality alone time_ with Simmons.”

Sarge says nothing. Grif wishes his helmet was off so Sarge could see his lecherous eyebrow-waggle.

"What'd you say--'keep working on Simmons'? Definitely can do, sir. Greatly enjoy working on Simmons, sir. Don’t wait up, sir,” says Grif. “Just letting you know, it might take a _long_  while. Lots of stuff we’ve been meaning to try--"

"ABORT MISSION," Sarge interrupts.

"--if you catch my drift..." Grif goes on.

“I said _abort_! Caboose, for the love of god,” Sarge begins, “ _please_ go get Simmons before Grif—”

“I said I’m _Blue_ ,” Caboose interrupts. "And I have important things to do! By myself! Without you!"

“Simmons is in mortal danger!” Sarge hisses, as if Grif isn’t right there listening to him. "Prolonged exposure to Grif has made him not right in the head, and now Grif is only going to make it worse with his hedonistic wiles!"

“Simon is not in danger,” Caboose says. “He is just sleeping. And now Grif is going to go back to the tree, and then they will sleep together.”

Dead silence.

“That’s how I found them in the first place,” Caboose continues.

Even the birds have gone quiet.

“Simon was very sweaty and embarrassed,” Caboose goes on.

“Anything else you need me to do, Sarge?” Grif asks brightly.

 

 

* * *

 

 

"The good news is that Sarge is literally never going to bother us ever again," Grif announces.

Simmons isn’t sleeping when Grif goes back to the tree, but he’s still hogging the shade. "What's the bad news?"

"No bad news," Grif lies. Well--it's not like Grif undermining Simmons's reputation as a heterosexual man is bad news. Right? Right? That'd be, like, homophobic, maybe? Who fucking knows. Grif nudges Simmons with his foot. "Move over, I'm beat and I want the shade."

“I’m gonna burn in the sun,” Simmons complains.

“Too bad. You’re not even sleeping, you’re covered in full-body armor, and I was a slacker _before_ it was cool.”

Simmons scoots over, but not enough. “I’m keeping my face in the shade, at least,” Simmons says.

“Ugh--okay, yeah, whatever,” Grif says.

Until he lies down and finds out that in this position, Simmons’s face is like, _six inches away from Grif's face_ , and then it’s—uh, no, it’s fine, Grif swears, it’s all chill with him! Everything is fine, Grif’s fine, we’re all alright! Just two dudes taking a nap, side by side, not touching because they’re not, like, uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. And because Grif is so, so fine and alright, Grif spends about four solid minutes lying there in the soft grass, in the pleasantly cool shade, listening to Simmons’s breathing, being super fine and weirdly hyper-alert for a dude who didn’t sleep at all the night before.

“Uh, Simmons, you’re missing out on prime ass-kissing over there,” Grif says at last. “Sarge is gonna resort to eating pints of ice cream to get over the break-up.”

“Fuck it,” Simmons mutters. “What do I care. Not like we’re doing anything worthwhile anymore, anyway.”

Grif snorts. “Yeah, that’s the Red Team spirit.”

“Is Sarge coming to yell at me?”

“Nah,” says Grif. “Caboose told him…”

He stops.

“Grif?”

“I forget,” says Grif.

“Uh-huh.”

“No, really, I did.”

“Uh-huh.”

"Probably wasn't important," says Grif. "It's okay now."

And Grif thinks: actually, it feels like things _are_ pretty okay. Like, _highly_ okay. Simmons is being  _friendly_ \--Grif can barely wrap his head around that. Grif has to put up with a Sergeant Shouty McGeezer, but he’s figuring out (after seven years) how to keep Sarge minding his own business.  Lopez doesn’t even speak English and Donut is supposedly skulking around here somewhere. They’ve got a nice base all to themselves and a big-ass backyard with a fucking _waterfall_. It could be worse. It could be better. It's okay.

(Isn't it? _Shouldn't_ it be okay?)

Grif listens to Simmons take a deep breath. (Wonders when was the last time Simmons threw up was.) Grif is keenly aware of the inches between their heads, how their shoulders almost brush, how if Grif moved his arm out to the left just a _little_ it’d bump into Simmons’s.

Some days, he thinks, things feel pretty okay. Feels weird. Feels suspicious. Still feels okay. Eventually, he falls asleep. Later, so does Simmons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **anthony padilla voice from vine** : two broooos, chillin in the hot tuuuub, five feet apart cuz they’re Not Gay


	27. Fruity Rumpus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m not having an emotions threeway with you and Lopez."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if anyone's wondering, grif's talking about what happened in chapter 13, when simmons tried to explain to grif why he'd been throwing up in a bathroom.

Sarge does not, in fact, bother them.

Sarge doesn’t bother them for _six days_.

It would, actually, be somewhat unnerving--like, come on, all he did was tame shit like put his arm around Simmons, wiggle his eyebrows, imply that he and Simmons were fucking on the grass like weed-smoking hippies. Tame shit. Sarge is a wussie, and also probably vanilla as hell, which kind of wasn’t anything that Grif, who is also a mega-vanilla dude, actually wanted to know about his commanding officer. Oh, god, abort thought, abort thought--anyway, thankfully, Grif is spared from being ungrateful for his six days of peace from Sarge’s unnerving silence by, instead, having no peace whatsoever because:

“Well, I wouldn’t _be_ annoying if you’d fess up what you’ve done,” Simmons snaps. (Touched a nerve with the word “annoying”, did he?) “You can’t expect me to watch our CO just vanish!”

“You’re the one who was being a rebellious snotbottle,” Grif complains. “ _You_ wanted him gone!”

Simmons crosses his arms. “Yeah, but, but--if _I’m_ being rebellious and lazy, and _you’re_ being rebellious and lazy, then who’s flying the plane?”

“Never fear!” a voice cries. Grif nearly jumps out of his skin and stares up at the roof of Blue Base. A lone figure is silhouetted in shining, resplendent glory from the rising sun. “ _I_ will fly the plane, with a firm hand upon all buttons, knobs, and joysticks!”

“Please get down from the railings, Lieutenant Crepes,” says Caboose.

“Oh,” sighs Simmons.

Oh, thinks Grif: _this_ motherfucker.

 

* * *

 

 

“Please do not lose your teammates,” says Caboose.

Simmons is eyeballing Caboose and his base devoid of literally all the other teammates Caboose has lost, so Grif elbows him to nonverbally tell him to shut the fuck up. “I didn’t get lost!” says Donut. “I just got transferred, and then almost killed, and then came back and almost died of dehydration, and then wound up in Caboose’s base as Caboose tried to restore me to health with a diet of Poptarts and coffee and almost died again!”

“So that’s why you needed the Decepticon coffee-maker,” Grif says.

“And I’m right as midwestern rain, now!” Donut chirps.

“Of course,” says Grif. “This makes complete and total sense.”

Simmons throw up his hands and doesn’t even try. Lazy bastard. Grif is so proud.

“And you came back… _why_?” Grif asks.

“Oh, well,” says Donut. “That’s a long story. Ages to tell! We really should go somewhere more comfortable! Have some tea, pull out some stroopwafels…”

“Yeah, I think I’m good over here,” says Simmons.

“But it’ll be fun! We can catch up and—”

“No, thanks,” says Simmons, “this single position in which I hold my elbow at a ninety-degree angle to hold my gun at the ready for literally no reason is really doing it for me.”

“Nothing’s stopping you from holding your elbow at a ninety-degree position while munching on stroopwafels,” says Donut.

“There is more stopping me from eating a stroop-waffle than you will ever know,” Simmons says coolly, “up to and including the fact that it’s called a _stroop-waffle_.”

Donut thinks about this.

“What,” says Simmons.

“Nothing,” says Donut.

“No, really,” says Simmons, “what’s that face for?”

“Nothing!” says Donut again.

“ _Donut_ —”

“I’m just saying,” says Donut. “It sounds a little, y’know... racist.”

Then Simmons refuses to be around someone who will make him eat Norwegian cookies and sulks off to annoy Caboose, which is not the normal order of annoyer-and-annoyee that Grif would have expected but apparently the Red Army is now so fucking useless that even Caboose has better things to do than talk to them. This, henceforth, leaves Grif alone with Donut.

“But since we’re here and got the whole room to ourselves,” Donut says, “well--give it to me, Grif!”

“No,” says Grif.

“I mean the _deets_ , gutterbrain!” Donut exclaims. “I mean the 411, the sitch, the upd8! What’s been happening since we last saw each other? Talk honestly with me!”

“Even more no,” says Grif.

The coffee machine spits out the last dregs of coffee. Donuts pours cups for the two of them. “Cream or sugar?”

“I don’t drink coffee,” Grif says.

“Hm, yeah, wasn’t that a song from _High School Musical..._?”

Grif really wishes that Simmons was back here so they could roll their eyes together. “The better question is, where were _you_?” Grif says. “Sarge probably thinks you’re dying, which--which I guess you are, or something--or that Caboose is disembowling you and baking you into meat pies. Fill us in, Donut.”

“I prefer being filled than filling,” says Donut, and begins pouring sugar into his coffee.

“Filling _in_.”

“Yeah, that!” says Donut cheerfully. “Speaking of, ever since I got transferred, I realized that getting bossed around isn’t in my wheelhouse! It’s such a passive role, you know? Like damn, some guys have _such_ a heavy hand, when really I think leading someone proper requires a gentler but still firm touch! Like, I _could_ be the brainless jokes-machine lackey, but frankly, I think I’d be better utilized as emotional leadership?! And I’m handsome enough to be mascot, too, if Lopez doesn’t want to--not that I don’t think that he’s a great mascot, but I think most mascots usually have eyes...”

Donut is still pouring sugar. Grif is waiting for the coffee to congeal. In the distance, Simmons shrieks and Caboose yells something about a wrench.

“...but then I’m not sure what else Lopez would do, because he can’t be emotional support if none of us can understand him--except for me! So I guess we can tag-team it? Make every therapy session a threeway with—”

“I’m not having an emotions threeway with you and Lopez,” Grif says.

“B—”

“No, stop, I’m stopping you _right there_ ,” says Grif. He’d forgotten how _much_ Donut would talk if you’d let him. How much it felt like communicating with a martian from another planet.

“In a threeway, there’s more holes to go around!” Donut exclaims, and caps the sugar bag. “Too much sugar, you think?”

“Lopez doesn’t _have_ …”

“Robots can have emotional voids that need to be filled too, Grif!” Donut cries.

Simmons chokes from the doorway.

Grif stabs a finger at him. "Whatever it is you're thinking is going on," Grif says, "it's  _not that_."

“Uhhh, yeah. Never mind,” Simmons says, and walks back out.

“I’m telling you,” says Caboose’s voice. “Gruf is always saying the ‘get the fuck away from me’ from February but in Red Team words, and now the pirate captain is scared.”

“ _What_?” Grif asks. Is  _everyone_ in Blue Base a Martian from another planet?

Wait, that was a stupid question. But he didn't think it'd be  _contagious_.

“Anyway, I’ve still got stuff to do here at Blue Base,” says Donut. “Which is why! I asked! In the first place! Let me know what’s up with the Red Team! So I can catch with you all! Without leaving my other friends out to dry like a cheap condom!”

“ _What stuff_ are you doing at Blue Base?”

“Blue Team stuff!” says Donut.

“Blue Team stuff _what_?”

“I can’t tell you! It’s very secret.”

Grif crosses his arms. “Oh, really. Secret.”

“Yeah!”

“Well,” says Grif, “we’ve got Red Team secret stuff, too.”

This is where Simmons rolls his eyes and what no that’s ridiculous and then thinks about it for two seconds too long and then panics because how come _he_ hasn’t heard anything about Red Team secrets? Sarge isn’t keeping secrets, right? Not from Simmons, because he’d never do that to Simmons, right??? Right????? And then boom, they’re off and running: instant chaos and entertainment. OR, alternatively, this is where Sarge nods knowingly and says ah yes THOSE secrets, the ones about my secret laser deathray to drill through the entire fucking Earth to liberate the Earth’s _molten core_ , the ultimate Red ally, or something like that--boom, off and running, instant chaos and entertainment. Grif hasn’t changed his operations in years.

Donut, the _motherfucker_ , says instead: “Pssh, that’s bullshit!”

“No, for real,” says Grif. “Secrets everywhere.”

“Please,” says Donut. “You can’t fool me.”

Grif frowns. “Drowning in secrets. It’s a nest of lies. Practically one of Lopez’s shitty telenovelas. Except _I_ am Madam Carmensita, and Lopez is Señor Diego.”

“You’re pulling my leg.”

“Nope!” says Grif. “And guess what? _Sarge_ has a tragic secret backstory that’s going to come back and bite us all in the ass, so get your ass ready.”

“My ass is never anything less than ready! But not for _that_ , because Sarge definitely doesn’t have a secret backstory.”

“He was an ODST,” Grif lies. Super lying. Making this shit up as he goes. “Awful, terrible accidents that he saw. He saw people burn up in the atmosphere as they came down. Crisped like bacon. Skin peeled off with the Kevlar when they tried to strip the armor.”

“Dooooooon’t beliiiiiiieve youuuuuuu,” Donut sings.

“I’m cheating on Lopez,” says Grif. “And then eloping with Simmons.”

“That’s not a secret, Grif, we all knew that.”

“Also, Simmons is dying,” says Grif.

“Really!” says Donut, sounding unimpressed with Simmons’s mortality. “Okay, hotshot-- _why_ is Simmons dying?”

(Grif doesn’t know why Simmons is dying. He doesn’t even know how long that--that sort of thing--takes to kill--)

“It... all started when we were in Rat’s Nest,” Grif begins, slowly.

“Ooh,” says Donut. “Go on!”

“There was this asshole,” says Grif. “Named, uh, Private Sissy.”

“Wow, _that’s_ an unfortunate name,” says Private Franklin Delano Fucking Donut.

“It was… something to do with the base, I think,” says Grif. “Some sort of… change in Simmons set in… or maybe just something I’d never noticed before...”

“Mmmhm,” says Donut.

Grif’s eyes narrow, piecing the story together. “I noticed, one day, that something was odd with Simmons… and I didn’t think anything of it, y’know, because who’s complaining when someone becomes _less_ stressed and _less_ crabby, right? But…”

Donut is quiet.

“...one day,” says Grif, “I found him sick out by one of the outer bathrooms. Didn’t know why, but…”

Grif puts his head in his hands. Donut’s breath catches.

“...I figured it out,” says Grif, quietly. Brokenly.

Donut reaches out for Grif’s shoulder. “...Grif…”

“HE’S _PREGNANT_ , DONUT!” Grif wails straight into Donut’s hearing aid. “PREGNANT WITH ANOTHER MAN’S CHILD!”

Donut takes his hearing aid out and throws it at Grif. “I see how it is!” Donut yells. “You con! You douchesniffing snake! _Playing with my gossip-loving heart like this_!”

“Wait, no, Donut, come back, he’s--he’s dying because not _only_ is he pregnant with Sissy’s child and throwing up with morning sickness, he’s _also_ drinking like a lush because of Sissy’s bad influence, and also Rat’s Nest had the _worst_ case of hay fever—!”

“CABOOSE!” Donut hollers down the hall. “GET SIMMONS! WE’RE KICKING THEM BOTH OUT!”


	28. Homos Only

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "This is a high-level slacking jutsu."

Red and Blue Team reach a comfortable stalemate.

Donut doesn’t come back from whatever Blue Team nonsense he’s doing. Caboose carries on with his Blue Team nonsense. Sarge does not command Red Team, who now has four members (five if they include Donut), to wipe out the only remaining Blue, because he can’t without shooting himself in the foot. He does not order Simmons to do anything, in part because Simmons wouldn’t do anything anyway. He does not order Grif to do anything. He gives plenty of orders to Lopez, who does a whole bunch of stuff to keep Red Base actually up and running, but none of the things that Sarge had asked.

One day, Grif walks into the common room and see Simmons flipping, boredly, through an ePub file on the couch. He’s got his contacts out and his glasses on and his hair slightly damp from a shower that probably wasn’t so much a shower as it was a cover for the sound of retching. He’s drinking water through a straw like it’s his job. His leg is bouncing, like it does when he’s getting antsy--probably because nobody’s done anything in weeks, and Simmons thrives on staying in motion. (Maybe he needs to go for a run? Get a hobby? Personal project?)

Simmons looks up and says, “Donut sent us a crate of diet soda, if you want it. Who knows how long it’s been in Blue Base, but he says that neither he nor Caboose are going to drink it because it’s bad for the complexion, so he thought we, being the ‘nasty frat boys’ that we are, might appreciate it…” He gestures to a fruit-basket arrangement on the floor, except all the fruit are soda bottles, and all the soda bottles are organized by color.

Grif watches Simmons taking off his glasses and cleaning them on his shirt with hazy but inevitable focus, and thinks, _All we need is a dog and a nice backyard, and we’re deep in white-picket-fence territory_.

Grif, suddenly, really wants a dog. Maybe that can be Simmons’s new hobby. Simmons has never had a pet, he’d said once. Simmons seems like a cat person. Grif wonders if they’ll still be trucking around together by the time Simmons finds out if he’s a dog person or a cat person. Grif kind of wants to still be there. It’s not curiosity, exactly--Grif hasn’t been curious about anything Simmons has done in years. He just wants to… be _there_. To just see it. He’s hoping that Simmons might smile.

Yeah, that’d be--that’d be real, real nice. It’s not the Makiki apartment with two small kids and a chill girlfriend he’d thought he could scrape but, y’know, sometimes “nice” is a dog and/or cat, a military base, an old man and his robot, a pair of stupid-ass gay neighbors, and Simmons’s tetchy frowns and doofus smiles.

Then Grif scowls at himself and collapses on the couch next to Simmons and puts his feet up on the soda-basket, because Christ, Grif is so old, and now Grif’s talking like an old man, too.

“Are you gonna put the soda away?” Simmons asks, in a voice that highly implies that he wants Grif to put the soda away.

“Yes, dear,” Grif says, in a voice that highly implies that he’s just going to wait until Simmons gets so tired of the soda being in the middle of the common room that he’ll put it away himself.

“You’re just going to wait until I get so tired of the soda being in the middle of the common room that I put it away myself, aren’t you,” Simmons says.

“Who, me?” Grif asks. “Be lazy? Try to get away with doing the least amount of work possible? Try to wriggle my way out of consequences by avoiding conversation topics? _Me_?”

“You could try not being fucking _proud_ of it,” Simmons says.

“I’m not proud of who I am, Simmons. I’ve only accepted that I cannot be anyone else.”

Simmons snorts. “Which self-help book did you get that from?”

“Fortune cookie,” Grif says, because he’s learned that nobody in this damn base will take him seriously if he admits to having come up with that himself. (And if they take him seriously, then he’s only shown a soft underbelly, and--well.) “Speaking of, Simmons, you should probably know--you’re great at slacking off and all, and I really appreciate the effort, but you should know--I’ve got _years_ more of experience at this than you, buddy. Don’t get cocky. You’re speaking to a professional, here.”

Grif does the thing with the two fingers pointing first at Grif’s eyes, then at Simmons.

“ _Excuse_ you,” Simmons says. “You say that like slacking off is _hard_.”

“Oh, the naivety,” Grif says, shaking his head. “You’re a sweet summer child, right now, waddling in the shallow end of the pool.”

Grif leans against the armrest on the opposite end of the couch from Simmons, which should, theoretically, put the length of the entire couch between them, except the entire couch is really fucking tiny. Grif swings his legs up onto the couch and onto Simmons’s lap.

“Get your!--fucking!!--nasty shoes off my tablet!”

“This is a high-level slacking jutsu,” Grif says, pressing his feet down firmly on Simmons’s thighs so Simmons can’t escape or push his legs off. “In this technique, not only am I slacking off and pissing off other people by slacking off, but I’m both broadcasting it and actively pissing _you_ off because I’m interfering with your productive reading.”

Simmons twists and puts his giraffe legs on the couch too, so his size twelve feet are sitting right on Grif’s lap. Or rather, because Simmons has legs for miles and the length of the couch is just barely too short to accommodate Simmons’s giant legs, Grif gets fucking _crushed_ by legs.

And, like--look, honestly, if Grif is going to die by being crushed by Simmons’s lovely legs, Grif’s _not_ complaining.

“High-level slacking technique, is it, Grif?” Simmons asks. “Is it really?”

“You wanna know an even higher-level slacking technique, Simmons?” Grif asks.

Simmons, who thinks he’s won with his giant smug legs, says, “What?”

“If you’re preventing me from getting up off this couch with your legs,” Grif says, “then I can’t put away the soda basket.”

Simmons leans back. Groans for half a minute straight.

Then he throws his tablet down and stands up. “Fine! Fine! I’ll do it myself!”

“Thank you, dear!” Grif calls.

Simmons lifts the basket with his metal arm and flips the bird with the other and marches out of the room.

Grif leans his head back on the couch and vaguely wishes he had a cigarette. He closes his eyes. Carefully, he breathes until the stupid sappy smile no longer threatens his face. He wonders what it's be like to have Simmons’s nice long legs wrapped around his wai—

Grif decides he’ll go for the cigarette.

The e-cig, though, or Simmons will throw a fit when he comes back.

 

* * *

 

 

He’s scrounging around for the e-cig in the pockets of various sweatpants he’s got squirreled under the common room table when he notices Sarge, peering through the door like he’s checking the room for threats. Grif eyes him. “Looking for something?” he calls.

Sarge harrumphs.

“Looking for something, _sir_?” Grif sighs, because apparently they can’t get past this fucking miltiary charade.

“Yes, in fact,” Sarge declares. “I’m looking, in fact, for you, Private Grif!”

“Wow,” says Grif. “Congrats. You did it. You found me. What now?”

Sarge points a finger at Grif’s nose. “I’ve got some. Things. I’d like to say,” says Sarge irritably. “To _you_.”

“Fascinating,” says Grif.

Sarge stares at Grif with distrust and uncertainty which, honestly, Grif is a hundred percent down for as a new change of pace. Beats being yelled at.

“Are you gonna get to it?” Grif asks.

“I think you’re tryn’a bamboozle me,” Sarge says.

Grif waits.

“Tryn’a pull the wool over my eyes.”

“You’re going to have to be more specific,” Grif says.

“It’s about Simmons! And you! And—” Sarge leans forward, eyes narrowed. “ _I don’t believe you two are really doin’ the hanky-panky_.”

Grif’s eyebrows shoot up, which is exactly the wrong thing that he shouldn’t have done. Sarge’s grizzled lips quirk into an unamused grin.

“Yep--yeah, I think I’ve got you figured out, Private Grif. I thought it was odd, you changing your tune on a dime! I think you’re just _pretendin’_.”

“First of all, nobody calls it the hanky-panky,” Grif says. “Second of all, why the hell would I pretend about that?”

Sarge’s eyes are slits. “Because you’re getting back at me,” he says.

Ooh, Grif thinks. Got it in one.

“Don’t be so self-absorbed,” Grif says instead.

“No, you can’t fool me,” Sarge says, jabbing a single finger at Grif’s nose. “You’re putting that poor, confused boy in the middle of our feud, like a chesspiece! He just wants to be a good soldier, Grif, you sadistic bastard! He doesn’t deserve this!”

“Lots of people don’t deserve lots of things,” says Grif. “For example, does Caboose deserve to get eradicated just for being a Blue?”

“Yes!”

“Noooooo,” says Grif, as if explaining morality to a small child. “Okay, then--do _you_ deserve to walk into the break room and find that someone’s taken the last of the coffee and refused to refill the pot?”

Sarge says, “Hhhrmgmghmmmmmm.”

Grif holds up his hands. “Bad shit happens to everyone! Deserving isn’t even on the table.”

Sarge rubs a hand across his whiskers. “So,” he says slowly, “you’re admitting that you _are_ pretending to be friends-with-benefitting Simmons as a chesspiece to get out of work?”

Oh, shit.

“Not necessarily,” says Grif quickly. Sarge’s eyes flash. Shit, _too_ quickly. Oh, _shit_. Wait, no, don’t panic. Nothing unsalvageable yet. “It’s the... rhetoric, the intellectual debate of the idea...”

“You’re digging yourself a verbal hole, Private,” Sarge says gleefully.

“I’m not—”

“You’re confirming my suspicions every time you open your lying mouth, and do you know why?!" Sarge cries. "Your guilty expression gives it _all_ away!”

_Shit, shit, shit, shit—_

“You _are_ lying!” Sarge cries triumphantly. “You’re using my only weakness, a gentlemanly compulsion to give couples their privacy, to get out of any sort of labor in a way that’s unprecedently diabolical! You’ve reached new lows, Grif--have you no _shame_? Have you no--”

“What’d Grif do this time?” Simmons asks.

Sarge spins around and grins, maniacally, at Simmons, who's continuing his recent bad habit of walking into rooms at the exactly wrong moment. Grif is almost frozen where he sits in the middle of the couch, watching his perfect, _wonderful_ plan to get out of doing work forever fall apart before his eyes. “Private Simmons! Just on time!” Sarge says. “Private Grif, why don’t _you_ tell Simmons what you’ve done?”

Simmons gives Grif an expectant look. Grif’s mind reels for an explanation. Grif opens his mouth—he stammers—

“I already know he broke the fridge light,” Simmons says, walking, without any realization that Grif's plan is combusting, towards the couch.

“Uh,” says Grif.

“And that he left the toothpaste uncapped, _again_.”

“Nope!” Sarge says gleefully. “Not those, although those too are heinous and disgusting! You see, Simmons, Grif has been _lying_!”

Simmons looks very unimpressed. “Lying?” he says, and sits back on the couch. “About what?”

Grif looks at Simmons and feels his soul ascend out of his body, because Simmons has, apparently, chosen to sit about one-point-two inches away from Grif, with their thighs fucking touching _\--he repeats,_ _fucking!! touching!!_ \--and Simmons’s arm thrown across the back of the couch as if around Grif’s shoulders. For all intents and purposes, Simmons looks like he’s comfortably seated on the couch next to his significant other, and Sarge has come to visit them in _their_ space, where they were having a gay old time before Sarge interrupted them, and Simmons fully intends to resume their conversation as soon as Sarge will leave them alone. It’s--fucking masterful, honestly, the levels of social blocking Simmons has somehow, magically, employed to cue Sarge into the strong signal of "I'm not interested, and you can go, now." The mastery of the move leaves Grif almost speechless.

“Uh, dude,” Grif hears himself ask. “What slacking technique is this?”

Simmons looks at him with an expression like closed shutters. “Nothing?"

“Oh,” says Grif, as if Simmons putting his arm around Grif and sitting half in Grif's lap is, like, something super normal that they do every day? “That’s, um… good?”

“Yep,” says Simmons. "What's this about lying?"

Nobody moves. Nobody speaks.

"Hm," says Simmons. "Well--I guess it'll come up. Anything else you needed from us, Sarge?”

Simmons’s arm does not move.

“No,” says Sarge, with a straight face, sturdy conviction, and even tone at a decibel about three octaves too high.

“Good to hear, sir,” says Simmons, and still his arm does not move.

Sarge looks across the common room with a look of “you may have won this time dirty Blue/nefarious enemy/Meta/Grif/washing machine, but I’ll get you next time!” Outwardly, Grif smirks, the picture of being a smug fuck who’s not only getting some, but using his getting some to make his superior officer too uncomfortable to give him any orders for fear of walking in on something he’ll regret--so not only a smug fuck, but the smuggest fucker.

Inside, Grif is freaking the _fuck out_.


	29. Heat Stroke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, fuck--let’s stop talking about Sarge, Grif doesn’t want to associate any of this with Sarge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for........ shitty spanish.......??? it went thru google translate like three times to make sure it was ULTRA shitty

In the space of two minutes, Grif goes from enjoying a nice vacay to feeling like he’s in a fucking warzone.

Grif wakes up in the morning and there’s Simmons, nodding at him and not eating breakfast and with his hair a little uncombed because Simmons at some point made the jump from being neurotic about his appearance to not really caring if Grif sees him in less than stellar condition and then Simmons gives him a humorless, early-morning hint of smile and Grif nearly shoves his plate in the toaster instead of his actual fucking toast. And then Grif goes outside after breakfast and there’s Simmons, waiting at the door for Grif to come by and shoot the breeze with him, looking impatient and bored in the hot morning sun but just a little clearer-eyed when Grif shows up and _fuck_ . Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.

Grif suddenly has the overwhelming conviction that everything is unfair and Grif is being a idiot again.

In the interest of Grif being honest with himself: Simmons is ninety-nine percent incapable of entertaining himself, unless Simmons has managed to pirate another book or TV show. And the thing is, Grif would have nothing to do _either_ if he wasn’t enabling his teammates to run around in stupid fucking circles. It’s a symbiotic relationship. It’s boredom. It’s shitty bro-jousting. It’s the worst coincidence of all time. It’s—

Whatever. Let’s go check out of that waterfall.

So they go and check out that waterfall, because it is, actually, an outrageously hot day, even for Grif, who wears layers in summer and regularly switches the base thermostat from sixty-eight degrees to seventy-five when nobody’s looking, which always pisses off Simmons despite the fact that Simmons also always runs cold and complains about fucking being cold? But now that it’s hot, Simmons is complaining about the heat, the lack of breeze, the sun, how Simmons is running low on sunscreen for his lily-white ass, as if that’s the most important thing they need in a hundred degree weather--how come this dude never stops complaining?

There’s _fucking Simmons_ taking off his helmet because it’s too hot, wiping sweat off his face with the back of his glove, _fucking Simmons_ standing in the cool water, _fucking Simmons_ taking his gloves off and pouring water over the back of his neck so his hair stands in hand-tousled spikes when he rubs his hair and face dry, _fucking Simmons_ shaking his hands dry and shoving his long fingers back into his gloves as water droplets trail down the cut of his jaw, the hollows of his neck--

“Are you alright?” Simmons asks.

“Hhhhfhhyhhffhfyyyeah,” says Grif. “Yeah? Yeah, of course?”

Simmons frowns. His eyelashes are wet and dark. There’s water scattered across his freckles. Which Grif isn’t noticing or looking at or thinking about at all.

“Very. Alright,” says Grif. “Yes?”

“You’re not getting heat stroke, are you?” Simmons asks.

Simmons takes a step closer. Grif has the strong desire to see _how_ close Simmons will come and the simultaneous desire to run away screaming. Unfortunately, the simultaneous sudden and strong desire flooded his entire functioning system and Grif ended up standing there doing _nothing at all_ at Simmons comes close enough that Grif can see the old shaving scar from that one time in their second year at Blood Gulch, the faintest raise of white skin, along the cheek still made of flesh, the kind of scar so strong but so feather-thin that you can’t help but want to trace it, down and along the slight hollow below his cheekbones and through the acne scars to the side of his chin just below the corner of his mouth—

“YES IM DYING OF HEAT STROKE OKAY GOODBYE,” Grif says, and _runs_.

 

* * *

 

 

GRIF’S FINE IT’S FINE EVERYTHING’S FINE.

 

* * *

 

 

Grif takes refuge with--of all people-- _Lopez_.

Where else is he supposed to go? Donut’s off shacking up with Caboose. Sarge thinks Grif’s come down with a bad case of Gay Cooties. Who else is Grif gonna hang with? The Epsilon unit?

“I’ve got sun stroke,” Grif tells Lopez.

“Su armadura tiene enfriamiento interno del sistema _(Your armor has an internal system cooling)_ ,” says Lopez.

“I’m taking a break for my health and happiness,” Grif says.

“Eres Grif. ¿Qué salud? _(You’re Grif. What health?)_ ” says Lopez.

“Don’t mind me,” says Grif.

“En realidad--eres _Grif_ . ¿Que felicidad? _(Actually--you’re_ Grif. _What happiness?)_ ,” says Lopez.

“Cool,” says Grif, and kicks up his heels.

“Y, por supuesto, su armadura está medio roto porque no lo cuidas. Te tratas como una cochinilla ambulante _(And of course your armor cooling is half broken because you don’t take care of it. You treat yourself like a walking pigsty)_ ,” says Lopez.

“Good night,” Grif says, and closes his eyes.

“Nunca te trataremos mejor que a ti mismo _(We will never treat you better than you treat yourself)_ ,” Lopez says. “Eres un idiota _(You fucking idiot)_.”

 

* * *

 

 

Grif sees, for the first time, what Sarge sees.

Grif--well, Grif doesn’t want to think about this _too_ much, you know? It kills him on the inside from the start to admit that Sarge actually sees _anything_ of value. And while Grif doesn’t trust Sarge’s judgment on even something as simple as whether or not he’ll need an umbrella, Grif _assumes_...

Ugh, fuck--let’s stop talking about Sarge, Grif doesn’t want to associate _any_ of this with Sarge.

Let’s talk about Jackson and Parker.

Private Jackson and Private Parker were dispatched to some soul-crushing, ass-freezing, entirely purposeless outpost on a colony in buttfuck nowhere, where they joined the ranks of Privates Wesleyan, Spike, Grif, Finnegan, Jay, and Pringles. (Pringles wasn’t his real name. Something to do about him wanting some friends of his to get him some pringles one time, and then he went to jail? It was very unclear.)

Jackson and Parker, perhaps, didn’t have the greatest introduction. Nobody was happy about new transfers--because honestly, what the fuck did they _need_ them for? Who gives a shit? Everyone else already knows each other, and it wasn’t a great dynamic, but it was a _sustainable_ dynamic. Did they _really_ need more people fucking up the balance they had? So most of the time, Jackson and Parker hung out with just each other.

Left alone, in the middle of nowhere, at a base without any real purpose--well, who’s really keeping score on what you do to get through the week? Everyone knows everyone else’s weird shit, anyway. Finnegan collected funny-shaped rocks, Jay had a knack for helmetcam candids, Spike’s the one asshole with That One Fetish, and sometimes Parker and Jackson fucked.

Because they weren’t even friends. Those two got to fuck because they were… acquaintances.

Yes, for real. Yes, _really_. Grif is actually very, very certain that they were acquaintances. Not friends with benefits. Not boyfriends. Not some sort of illicit prison-wife thing. No contract or monogamy or any arrangement set in stone. They were acquaintances who’d found a way to pass the time with someone they vaguely knew. Like playing cards, or watching a movie together. Good, clean, friendly sex.

Which isn’t uncommon. None of them were really surprised, except Grif, who’d only been recently drafted. It’s a thing that happens, Finnegan said. Does it bother you?

Jackson and Parker didn’t hang out more than anyone else did, or more than they did with anyone else. They didn’t get touchy-feely. They didn’t sit too close on couches or hold hands or think about what it’d be like to have an apartment and a dog together. They didn’t jokingly propose to each other or hang out under trees together or hang out in each other’s rooms while looking at Nat Geo magazines or jack off while thinking of the other in the middle of the night. They didn’t do _any_ of that.

That’s the way it’s supposed to go. That's what Grif was told was the "right way" to do it: the way that didn't rock any boats, didn't break any hearts, didn't threaten anyone's manly self-respect.

 _Not_ , of course, that this information about the social courtesies of banging your male friends is relevant at all to the situation! Nope! This is just a strange and out of place aside that has no bearing whatsoever on Simmons being so much of a fucking idiot that he doesn’t know what signals he is or isn’t giving off. Not that Grif has any incentive whatsoever to read into anything that Simmons does, because he _doesn’t_ , he doesn’t think about this or Simmons at all, ever, of all time.

Grif is stating this now, for the record, that he is flirting _entirely heterosexually_ with Simmons, and only because it’s such a great Sarge-deterrent.

But if this information _were_ relevant to the situation…

And if Grif _were_ to see, for example, two other people that weren’t himself and Simmons going through the motions that Grif and Simmons were doing…

If Grif were to know that those two other people were, in fact, probably way more than acquaintances, and had a shitload more history than just two transfers who’d met each other last week...

If Grif were wondering if they bit off more than they should… If they’re getting into something that goes into territory than none of them have a roadmap for…

Grif might be _worried_ for them.

Nervous enough to leave the room if he saw the beginnings of awkward PDA between them.

Concerned enough to grill one of them to check the facts.

Uneasy enough to give those two their space for entire weeks.

 

* * *

 

 

Well! Good thing that neither Grif nor Simmons are doing anything weird at all! Therefore, none of this is relevant information, and Grif will roll over and go back to sleep and do a whole lot of nothing and stop thinking about it, and he'll wake up in the morning and Simmons will get his act together and Grif will cary on avoiding all of the consequences for his actions entirely.

What a great plan!


	30. Bad Ideas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Don't damage your courtesy neurons while bashing your forehead into any mirrors."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank u aryashi for beta and also being the cooliest dooliest!!!!!!!

“At least I know my taste in people is shitty!” Kai retorts. “Unlike _you_!”

Dex says, “My taste in people isn’t _shitty_.”

Kai bursts out laughing.

 

* * *

 

 

Simmons is standing in the wreckage of a bathroom mirror. Grif is trying not to stare, but there’s a fuckload of glass and a bit of blood and Grif knows that somebody’s got to clean it up, and he really doesn’t want it to be him, Grif only got up to piss in the middle of the night and he really doesn’t deserve to get involved in this kind of drama and Simmons takes a step towards him and Grif just turns around and _runs_ out of the bathroom back to his room because _only fucking lunatics go around punching bathroom mirrors in the middle of the night_ and Grif does not intend to be caught in an enclosed space with someone with such a little grasp on his temper that he’d lash out with his fists like a two-year-old child. Grif locks the door behind him and swears up and down that Simmons is--Simmons is--it’s a bad idea, okay-- _Simmons_ is a bad, bad idea, full stop, and Grif just needs to do his time and maybe try to get dishonorably discharged and go the fuck home--he really just wants to go home, and promises himself that that’s all he’ll ever want from this fucking military.

Which means that Grif does not get to go home.

Grif does not keep his promise and he does want more from this fucking military.

Grif does not stay away from the bad idea.

Grif pulls his covers up to his chin and lies in bed with his eyes wide open, listening to the hallway echo: _crack_ goes the glass, _skitter_ across the floor, swearing, shuffling, the sound of desperation. Now it's just fucking awkward, y'know? Whatwith Simmons knowing that Grif's awake, and Grif knowing that Simmons is getting fucked with a mirror, and it's not like there's really anyone else in this base except for the crackpot sergeant, right? Just two schmucks who blew up a colleague in Basic together and then somehow, improbably, met up again in Nowhere Canyon, like some kind of shitty space fate.

And, like--okay, Grif didn't think Simmons was like, a creepy guy or anything, y'know? ("My taste in people isn't _shitty_ \--") A huge weenie, obviously, but Grif is the last person to blame someone for having a strong sense of self-preservation. And he seemed to--what's the word--he seemed to have a sense of humor? So, like, how wrong can you go with a guy with a sense of humor? But...

Aw, fuck it. Whatever.

Grif grabs the First Aid Kit and a ziploc of bandaids and creeps back down the hall. There's the sounds of scratching and scraping, the sound of glass on concrete base floor. Bad ideas all around tonight, huh?

Grif knocks on the bathroom door. Not that the door is closed or anything, Grif just doesn't wanna stick his head in without announcing himself.

The scraping noise stops.

"Uh, so, I dunno what's going on," Grif says into the door, "and I really, super don't wanna know, but, uh, I thought you might need some, like..."

Grif puts the First Aid Kit and the ziploc of bandaids on the ground and kicks them through the doorway, like he's someone surrendering their gun in an action movie.

There's a silence.

"Fuck off," Simmons mutters from around the corner.

He sounds pissed.

"Yeah, alright, jackass," says Grif. "Don't damage your courtesy neurons while bashing your forehead into any mirrors."

Grif turns away, when--"Wait! I didn't mean for _you_ to fuck off!" Simmons says. "I--uhh."

Simmons doesn't sound any less pissed. Actually, he sounds more pissed.

Grif peeks around the corner.

Simmons has got one finger curled around the handle of the first aid kit and another finger on the latch. He looks as pissed as he sounds, because his fingers are shaking and he very visibly cannot get the kit open. His hands are full of blood.

"What the fuck!" Grif cries. "Are you--jesus!"

Simmons flushes a deep red, and not in an attractive way--like in a splotchy, Uncle Vernon kinda way, honestly. "Fuck it," he snaps. "Okay, thanks, or something, but I--y'know what? Just go away!"

Aw, now he's self-conscious. "You're bleeding all over the floor!" Grif protests.

"Yeah, I can see that! Now go away!"

"Dude, no, this is gross as hell--like, I'm no stickler for hygiene or anything, but blood? In the communal bathroom? Christ!" Grif says. He pulls open the First Aid Kit. Simmons shrinks away, looking embarrassed, but doesn't stop him. "What the fuck did you do, have a boxing match with the mirror?"

"I slipped," Simmons mumbles, now obviously nervous.

"On what?"

"On," says Simmons, his voice pitching up three volume notches and an octave, "the water _you_ keep leaving on the bathroom floor! You, who is no 'stickler for hygiene', _clearly_!"

"It's fucking tile, it dries off--"

"Have you never heard of athlete's foot?!" Simmons hisses. “ _Mold_?!”

"Use shower slippers! For fuck's sake! How is some water on the tile an excuse for shoving both hands in a mirror?!"

"The blood on my hands is from trying to clean up the glass on the floor because I don't leave _my_ mess in the bathroom for everyone to suffer from like _some people_!"

"Don't insult me when I'm saving your ass!" Grif rips open a bandaid and holds it out.

Simmons is now moving away.

"You big fucking baby," Grif says. "Give me your goddamn hand."

"I--I--" Simmons stammers. "No! We have to clean the wound--"

"Oh, shit," Grif whispers, because he totally forgot about all the glass that’s probably in Simmons’s hand, whoopsie-daisies. "Okay, fine, let's do that. Sink's right here." Grif stands and reaches for the sink.

"Fuck off," Simmons says.

Grif raises his eyebrows.

"For real this time," Simmons says. Angrily, now. Eyes narrow and beady and mean.

Grif snorts. He'd fucking laugh, actually, if he wasn't so disgusted. This piece of shit, goody-two-shoes, brown-nosing son of a bitch, ready to snitch and tattle-tale and throw anyone he can under the bus, and here Grif is, doing him a fucking favor at two-god-damn-thirty-AM, and he's going to be small and spiteful. Okay--yeah, okay. Grif can tell when he's not wanted. Grif can tell when it's no great loss to not be wanted.

"Have it your way," Grif says. "Stay here with your band-aids you can't put on, and the glass you can't clean up, and the water you can't soak up, and blood all over your hands and all over your face, too."

Simmons jumps and touches a hand to his face.

"Because apparently you decided to stick your face in the mirror, too--"

Grif freezes. Simmons freezes.

As plain as day, Grif realizes: the wound on Simmons's mid-twenties-year-old face is a _zit_.

A _pimple_.

A giant, pustule-filled pizza-face acne wart that is bleeding because it got _popped_.

Grif puts it together midsentence:

"--because you were holding your face two inches from the mirror because you had to look that close to the mirror because you were popping a zit," Grif says aloud before he can think.

Simmons shoots to his feet. "WHAT? UHHHH, NO, ABSOLUTELY NOT, MY SKIN IS GREAT AND COMPLETELY CLEAR AND I'VE NEVER HAD A SINGLE PIMPLE IN MY WHOLE LIFE--"

"Holy _shit_ you _were_ popping a zit!" Grif cries. "Oh, this is fucking golden--I thought you were like, I dunno, having an emo Batman moment where you brood into the mirror and have a self-hate session like a cave-dwelling dungeons-and-dragons-playing nerdlord--"

"I--what--no, that's, uh, I would never do either one of those things but definitely not the first one because I never have pimples--"

"You'd really rather me believe you were brooding into a mirror and then broke it like a two-year-old child with anger management issues than you having a teeny-tiny zit," Grif says.

Simmons hesitates.

"Simmons. _C'mon_."

Simmons pulls himself to his full height. Extends one long, bloody finger at Grif's nose. "I do not have zits," he declares.

Simmons has effectively just declared to Grif that he's had a whole lifetime of zits and would rather be known as a cave-dwelling nerdlord than let anyone know one Real Shameful Thing about himself. Grif covers his hand over his shit-eating grin.

"And if anyone asks," Simmons continues, even more irritably and snootily, "you will take what you saw here to the grave."

Grif crosses his arms. "Says fucking who?"

Simmons hesitates. "My breakfast rations for the next two weeks says so."

Grif is unamused. Grif is earning a reputation for being easily bribed with food because Grif happens to like food; the truth is, Grif is only easily bribed with opportunity, which food may occasionally serve in lieu of. But Grif is only a fucking idiot ninety-nine percent of the time, and he knows when being underestimated serves him better than being overestimated (which is almost always), so this reputation serves him just fine.

"Oh, okay, then," says Grif. "Next time someone asks me to tell you all about your deep secret man feelings, I'll tell them that you break mirrors and cry in the middle of the night."

"No. Fuck off. Come up with else."

"Sorry, I have no imagination," says Grif.

"Okay, if someone asks what I was doing in the bathroom in the middle of the night, just tell them--"

"Sorry, I don't have long-term memory either," says Grif.

Simmons opens his mouth. Shuts it. Grits his teeth in visible irritation.

"One or the other, man," Grif says cheerfully. "Either you've got a singular, lonely pimple, or you're a cave-dwelling DnD-playing nerdlord who breaks mirrors in the middle of the night while crying."

Simmons groans. Rubs the unbloody parts of his forearm over his face in exasperation. (Probably why he gets pimples.)

"No pimples," says Simmons at last.

"You got it, Nerdlord."

"Don't call me that."

"You got it, Zitlord."

"Nerdlord is fine."

For a moment, Grif stares at Simmons. Simmons stares at Grif. Simmons's eyes is twitching with the effort of not laughing like a guilty teenager.

Grif says, with a completely straight face: "So is Nerdlord going to clean the glass out of his hands or what?"

Simmons starts sniggering. It's cute enough that Grif doesn't mind, so much, that Simmons had been a rude little shithead not two minutes ahead, and helps Simmons with the band-aids with minimal complaint. Simmons does not say thank you.

 

* * *

 

Simmons comes out the single-stalled bathroom in Valhalla just as Grif is walking down the hallway, and his eyes are red. He looks a bit like he’s been crying--his eyes are red, his face puffy and swollen--but Grif knows that he wasn’t.

Simmons looks up and their eyes meet. Simmons freezes.

 _Are you okay?_ Grif doesn’t ask.

Simmons grimaces. Looks away. Squares his shoulders and walks right past.

 

* * *

 

 

If Grif remembers right, they put one band-aid across the right palm, one band-aid around the left index, and one band-aid around the left pinkie. There were a pair of calluses, one on the ring knuckle, one between the ring finger and pinkie, around which Grif put no bandages because he didn’t think anything of them and didn’t know anything about Russel’s sign and didn't think he'd ever have to.

Simmons has a metal left arm, nowadays. Grif has Simmons's left hand--y'know, the one Simmons shoved through a mirror, and then cut off entirely to save Grif's entire left side of his body? There’s one scar around the left index and one scar around the left pinkie. Hard and lumpy and patchwork and rushed, as scars do.

At the time, he hadn’t really thought that the scars and calluses would look so similar.


	31. Letter Day, pt. 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Condensed milk. And breadcrumbs. And bacon. And peas."

Grif goes to Blue Base one day to escape Simmons. He walks through the door and finds none other than Simmons making Caboose mac and cheese.

For God’s sake--can Grif never escape this motherfucker?

“You want me to put _what_ in the macaroni?” Simmons asks.

“Condensed milk. And breadcrumbs,” says Caboose. He’s got his helmet off and is flipping through pages. There’s open envelopes sitting on the table. “And bacon. And peas.”

“Peas? _Why_?” Simmons says, disgusted.

“It’s how my sisters got me to eat my vegetables.”

“Peas are a starch,” Simmons mutters, like peas did him a personal wrong. “They’re just tiny potatoes in disguise, and potatoes are just pasta in disguise, and pasta is just bread, and bread is just a waste of calories… No fats for brain health, no protein for muscle growth…”

“Peas are friendly and round and roll on your plate,” Caboose says, in the tone of voice that implies that Caboose is two inches from becoming definitively unfriendly for the defense of peas.

Simmons, always a head for danger, scowls, but takes down an ancient can of peas from the shelf. “And you’re sure you want breadcrumbs?” he asks, sounding pained.

“I don’t think you’re very good at making mac and cheese,” Caboose says.

“You can’t just eat _nothing_ —”

“Lieutenant Cupcake makes me Poptarts.”

Simmons mutters under his breath again.

“And if you won’t make mac and cheese right, maybe you should go back to Red Base,” Caboose says testily. “Or let Gruf cook.”

Simmons whips around. Ah, fuck. Busted. Caught staring at Simmons flailing in the domestic kitchen like a fucking creeper.

But Simmons doesn’t look pissed--actually, he looks relieved. “Thank god,” he says, shoving the hodgepodge of kitchen equipment on the counter and sidling up to Grif. Close.

Real close.

“This is like the first time he’s talked to anyone but Donut since we talked to him two weeks ago, and I’m fucking it up,” Simmons hisses.

Simmons’s arm is touching Grif’s arm.

“Do something!” Simmons whispers.

Oh shit, Simmons’s _shoulder_ is touching Grif’s shoulder. Wait, no, be cool, Grif’s cool, it doesn’t matter anyway, why would shoulders rubbing matter to Grif anyway? Totally unimportant, unremarkable, Grif doesn’t care at all!

“Grif!” Simmons says.

“Uhhh,” says Grif. (Smooth.)

“For god’s sake, I’m not socially competent enough for this!”

Simmons’s face is really really close to Grif’s. Oh fuck. Oh Jesus. Look at his eyes and not at his lips. Wait no he’s looking at Grif’s eyes don’t look at his eyes then it just gets weird and like, soul-gazey-bullshit. Then where is he supposed to look—

Caboose sighs and picks up his helmet, dumps a bunch of letters from the table into it, and makes to leave.

“--Hey!” Grif says. “Hang on—”

“No, thank you,” says Caboose.

Now, it’s none of Grif’s business what Caboose does. Grif has been long under the impression that sometimes, the greatest form of respect is just leaving other people god damn alone, y’know? Don’t fucking _hover_ \--what’re you, a Pelican? Doesn’t work out for anyone when you care too much.

Grif watches Caboose disappear into another room. The door closes and the lock turns.

“Damn,” Grif mutters, despite himself.

Simmons gives a little huff. Screws up his nose like he’s just smelled something foul. Glances at Grif, who tries his motherfucking best to get his head on goddamn straight and do the Manly Repressed Communication Head Nod and stop thinking about why Simmons is standing close enough to _literally_ rub elbows with him. For god’s sake, Grif, Caboose’s friend is fucking dead; stop looking at Simmons’s jawline, you useless horny fuck!

Wait, no, he didn’t say horny. Scratch that. Forget he mentioned that. Unthink it. _Unthink it--_

“Caboose is pretty boring nowadays,” Simmons says, sounding at a loss for anything else to say.

“That's the worst attempt at sympathy I've ever heard,” Grif says. "And nonetheless, I'm proud of you for getting your head out of your ass and having a thought about someone other than yourself."

“You don’t have to sound so _shocked_ ,” Simmons sniffs, like an uppity middle-aged haole woman. “I know we’re doing our best.”

“Who _are_ you?” Grif says, genuinely in disbelief. “First you’re telling Sarge to fuck off, now you’re being _nice_ ? _Empathetic_?”

“I never said your best isn’t perennially disappointing and underachieving,” Simmons says.

“There we go. Don’t scare me like that,” Grif says. “I’m just a simple man who wants things to stay the same.”

Both of them look at the door Caboose locked. (Talk about shit changing, huh?)

“Psst,” Simmons whispers. “Are you gonna go fix it?”

“ _Me_ ?” Grif says. “Why would _I_ go fix it?”

“Don’t you want things to stay the same?”

No, he won’t be bamboozled into doing more work than he has to, even if Grif actually wants to do the work. Especially if Grif wants to do the work, because nothing's more suspicious than Grif being motivated. "I also want to expend as little effort as possible," Grif says suspiciously. "Why don't you go fix it?"

“First off, I tried. Second off,” Simmons says in his snotty Granger-voice, “it’s Sarge’s job to come up with something stupid, Donut’s job to do something stupid, Caboose’s job to be something stupid, my job to be irritated with the something stupid, and your job to mock the shit out of something stupid.”

“If Caboose’s job is to _be_ stupid, why would I go in there and mock him? How would that _fix_ anything?”

“I don’t know!” Simmons complains. “Isn’t laughter the best medicine or whatever the fuck—isn't that how humor works?"

“Not _that_ kind of humor!”

“It's not my job to come up with the ideas!” Simmons wails. “That’s Sarge’s job!”

“Yeah, but it’s _also_ your job to analyze how fucking stupid it is and then suggest something slightly less stupid!” Grif says.

“False,” says Simmons. “I make an exception of analyzing myself. If I critiqued myself for everything stupid I did, I’d be in a constant state of paralysis.”

Grif covers his mouth. “Incredible,” he says. “This honestly explains everything I’ve ever known about you.”

“I can still hear you!” Caboose calls through the door.

“Does this mean you’ll come out now?” Grif calls back.

“Go away!”

“But humor solves everything! And there’s nothing funnier than Simmons being un-self-aware!”

“Go! Away!”

“Let’s try a joke at Grif’s expense now,” Simmons says.

“Oh, right, because we’ve never done _that_ before,” Grif mutters.

“Go!” Caboose yells. “ _Away_!”

“I’m eating your mac and cheese then!” Grif yells back.

“It doesn’t even have any peas!”

“And you were going to inhale the mac and cheese anyway,” says Simmons.

They both look expectantly at the door.

“Making fun of Grif won’t make me come out either!” comes Caboose’s voice.

“Blues suck so much ass,” Simmons mutters.

There’s a heavy thud. The metal door rattles in its frame. Ah, there it is: the end of Caboose’s patience for the day.

Grif leans over to Simmons. “Let’s try again some other time.”

“We can bring the Nat Geo,” Simmons says.

They beat a hasty retreat back to Red Base. Man, warfare in Valhalla just ain’t like it was back at Blood Gulch.


	32. Shovel Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m in the closet,” Simmons says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the long awaited return of really shitty spanish!! because lopez is what yall are waiting on the edge of ur seats for. shhh. it's ok. i know. i gotchu

Simmons is sitting on the railing of the roof. Which Grif hates; always makes him nervous when people sit too close to edges with a long ways to fall. He thinks falling might be one of the worst ways to die. He heard that you regret it before you hit the ground.

“The fuck are you doing up there?” Grif yells.

“Jerking off to sandstone gradients,” Simmons yells back.

“Well, do it inside, you fucking exhibitionist!”

Simmons does not do it inside. Grif goes up there to drag him off the railing himself. Simmons sits on the roof and bounces one leg and crosses his arms and glares at the wall.

“What is it now, you big baby,” Grif says.

“The fuck makes you think there’s anything? It’s nothing. Leave it alone.”

 _He’s lying_ , Grif’s gut says. “Whatever you say,” says Grif.

Simmons glares. “Just bored. Slacking off is boring,” Simmons says.

 _He’s still lying_ , Grif’s gut says. _Boredom gets him wound up, but not_ this _wound up._

“Everything is boring,” says Grif. “We’re at a base in the middle of nowhere with nothing to do.”

“Everything is more boring than usual.”

_Lying, lying, lying. It’s something else._

“You gotta make your own fun,” says Grif. “Creativity. Imagination. Clever repurposing of your resources. Can’t just rely on Sarge to tell you what to do. Be free, Simmons.”

“Freedom is boring.”

Grif scowls. “Having an existential breakdown, are you?”

“We ruined the old team dynamic,” Simmons says.

“The old team dynamic’s been ruined for ages,” Grif says. “Donut was missing for like, almost two years, and Tucker’s _still_ gone. Church is binary code in a three-pronged dildo. Also, the old team dynamic sucked ass.”

“We can’t _not_ have a kiss-ass on Red Team,” Simmons mutters. “Nothing’s getting done.”

“There’s nothing to _be_ done.”

Simmons sits up. “Grif,” he says.

“No,” says Grif.

“You haven’t even heard what it is, yet.”

“I don’t want to do it,” says Grif.

Simmons groans and goes back to bouncing his leg and fiddling with his fingers.

Now--look--there’s zero way that Simmons would ever win a verbal argument against Grif, because Simmons couldn’t argue his way out of a wet paper bag, and also routinely loses arguments with himself. Simmons wins arguments only when he pulls out the teeth--the very serious, very un-funny and un-friendly teeth. The kind of teeth that end with both of them licking their wounds and pretending they don’t live in the same building for the next week. Simmons hasn’t won an argument in a long, long time. On one hand, Grif likes it that way. On the other hand, with Simmons looking like he's going to bounce off the roof...

“Okay,” Grif sighs. “What is it?”

 

* * *

 

 

Simmons’s Great and Wonderful Idea is to tell Sarge to get Donut back, so that Donut can be the New Resident Kiss-ass. Theoretically, this is a good idea--except that the person who goes to propose the idea will most certainly be the person most at risk of being roped into becoming New Resident Kiss-ass in the steamroller way that Sarge does. “Therefore,” Simmons had concluded, “ _you_ should do it.”

Which is why Grif is now doing it. Fuck him.

Sarge is in the holoroom, working on that stupid new jeep that doesn’t actually work because it emps its own damn self every time it fires. (How did the phrase go—people creating in their own image, or something like that…?) Grif, reluctantly, stations himself in plain view on one of the plastic kitchen chairs, like he’s some kind of bait, slathering himself in barbecue sauce and posing on the grill for the Big Bad CO to come and roast him alive because Grif is too much of a dumbass to turn down Simmons for some reason Grif isn’t examining very closely.

“I’m in the closet,” Simmons says.

Grif chokes. “Uh—uh, you are?”

Simmons pauses in the process of holding the actual, literal hallway closet open. “Yeah?” he says. “So I can eavesdrop on the conversation to hear how it's going?”

“Right,” says Grif. “Right. Closet. Literal closet.”

Simmons looks at him funny, like he can’t fathom what Grif might have heard instead, even as a high red color spreads across his neck and cheeks. (For fuck’s sake, how many mixed signals can one man give off?)

Lopez chooses the moment to clatter through the door, glancing irritably at both of them, which means Sarge will come up any second. Grif sighs. Simmons shuts the door. Grif leans back in the kitchen chair and acts casual.

Lopez stops, looks around, and says, “Oh, esto será bueno _(Oh, this will be good)_.”

“Lopez, you’re blocking the door!” Sarge’s voice begins, before Sarge stops dead in the doorway and nods at Grif. Grif hesitates.

“ _Realmente_ bueno _(_ Really _good)_ ,” Lopez says.

Now, let’s get one thing straight: Grif does not intend to bring _any_ problem to Sarge. He does not intend to tell Sarge jack shit. He does not intend to put himself in any position in which he could be roped, accidentally or not, into doing anything he has not thought of doing himself for his own reasons and benefits; he does not intend to live under any banner but the one he chose. He _does_ intend to run rings around Sarge until both Sarge and Simmons (eavesdropping from his hetero-closet) forget that they ever wanted to actually have a functioning task force capable of killing Caboose. Grif isn't taking the chances that anyone might get shot or killed, especially under Sarge's command, and Sarge's command does not need to be amplified with any new second-in-kiss-assery.

Grif’s got this. He’s done it before and he can do it again. He nods and says, “Hey, Sarge…”

“We need to talk,” Sarge says.

Grif knows in a single instant that he’s completely, totally, and utterly boned. He would wonder why he keeps ending up in these situations but, alas, he knows exactly why, and it’s because he is getting hoisted by his own petard. His lies are catching up with him. Oh, god, he knew it was only a matter of time, but not like this. Anything death is preferable than having _An Emotional Talk_.

“Donut did it! I don't know what it is but he did it,” Grif says.

Sarge takes off his helmet and sits at the kitchen table. He clears his throat and tries to not look nervous. 

Grif is _super ultra mega boned_.

“Private Grif,” Sarge begins. “I’ve been thinking…”

“Well, uh! I’ve just remember that I have to, uh, assist, uh, Simmons…” Grif says, just as he realizes that Simmons is _not_ the person to be bringing up right now, particularly since Simmons was eavesdropping on Grif trying to get out of the conversation Simmons had put him up to—oh, _hell_ , shit, god fucking damn—

“Actually, this is about Simmons,” Sarge says.

Lopez begins snickering. Grif would punch him if he wasn’t busy freaking out. Grif clears his throat and tries again: “Wh-wh-what could there, ahahaha, _possibly_ be to say about Sim—”

“Look—I don’t trust you, Grif,” Sarge interrupts.

Okay, that’s nothing new.

“ _But_!” Sarge says. “I have eyes! And though it may be old and crusty and largely covered in gasoline and motor oil, I have a heart, too!”

Grif is _actually_ sweating bullets, because for _fuck’s sake_ , Sarge is trying to have an _emotional talk_ about a fake relationship that Grif has been having with Simmons while Simmons is literally eavesdropping ten feet away--Grif is fucked on every level, a beautiful parfait of getting fucked, _this cannot be happening to him_. “Sarge,” Grif says, shakily, “I think you need to stop right th—”

“AND I JUST WANT TO SAY,” Sarge continues, “that I—may not trust you, and by god, it’s hard having to run this team without Simmons’s constant validation of my leadership and tactical decisions, and I will forever resent you for having seduced that away with your—your— whatever wiles you have—”

“SARGE—”

Sarge slams a fist on the table. “Dammit, Grif, stop interrupting! I need you to hear this! Although I may never understand what Simmons sees in your oversized and repellent carcass, and I may never forgive you for having undermined my leadership by taking away my most vocal support, and I may never trust you and your intentions—by god, Grif, don’t you see this is an awful idea?”

Grif freezes. Every thought flies out of his head.

“An _awful idea_?” Grif echoes in disbelief. Him, sleeping with Simmons—such an awful idea that Sarge, Professional Engineer Of Awful Ideas, is telling him that it’s an awful idea? Like it’s Sarge’s fucking _business_ what Grif and Simmons do? Like he’s got any place to judge this--this--this thing that isn’t even _happening_ , which Grif absolutely isn’t going to get defensive about because it’s not happening anyway, remember, don’t lose your cool, Grif--

Sarge crosses his arms. “Of course it's an awful idea! wWhich is why I've taken it upon myself to inform you—”

“Fuck off!” Grif snaps. “Neither of us _asked_ for your god damn opinion!”

“Let me finish!” Sarge snaps right back.

“Este es el mejor dia de mi vida _(This is the best day of my life)_ ,” Lopez says.

Grif chucks his proverbial cool out the window.

“ _Hell_ no,” he says, standing up from his chair so fast it nearly topples over. “I’ve tolerated a _whole_ lot of bullshit from you over the years, but I’m a _hundred_ percent sure that what Simmons and I do is none of your concern and that you have _no_ place telling us what’s a good—”

“If you’re going to do an awful idea,” Sarge shouts over Grif’s head, “you have to do it with gusto!”

“--or bad idea, we’re going to do what _ever_ the hell we—”

Grif stops. Blinks.

“What?” he says.

“You have to give the awful idea heart and passion!” Sarge says, holding up one finger like a professor in a lecture hall. “The trick to preventing an awful idea from backfiring is to do it with _everything_ you’ve got! Go the full mile! Bet everything you own!”

Grif is almost speechless. “Is this your idea of… Are you giving me _advice_?”

Sarge harrumphs. Puts his hands on his hips and holds his head high. “I,” he announces, “am giving you my _blessing_.”

“WHAT part of that,” Grif says, “was your BLESSING?”

“You’re not _listening,_  numbnuts! I said it’s an awful idea!”

Grif throws up his hands. “I _am_ listening, and I’m telling you that’s not a blessing! That’s the _opposite_ of a blessing!”

“Dammit, Grif, I knew you were slow, but I didn’t think you were _this_ slow! This is _Red Team_ ,” Sarge says, speaking slowly, as if to an idiot. “Red Team doesn’t _do_ good ideas. A good idea would be to leave it at a one-night stand so you can pick up your crushed feelings alone and in the dark like true men! The _best_ idea would be cut this thing off with Simmons _before_ you even get that far! But no—the true Red Team life, the true _lifeblood_ of the Red Army, is to choose the _worst_ idea you can think of, the idea that should have been smothered in the cradle and never seen the light of day, the idea with the worst risk and the best reward and the nearly-impossible odds of ever actually succeeding--choose _that_ big bad son of a bitch, then _pull it off_.”

“My god,” Grif whispers. “This explains everything about you.”

“And—as I said—I may not trust you, I may not _like_ you, I may not trust these odds or this plan or this idea, but I can acknowledge a foolhardy, harebrained, trueblooded Red scheme when I see one,” Sarge says. “Contrary to the usual one-night-stand, you’re playing for _hearts_ , Private Grif! Both your own and Private Simmons’s! _Incredible_ odds, considering that as of a month ago, I didn’t even think you _had_ a heart in that whale blubber chest of yours!”

Grif says, “I don’t even know what part of this to respond to—”

Sarge points one gloved finger at Grif. His eyes are pinched, his mouth flat with distaste, but his expression is oddly still. His finger doesn’t waver. The lightbulb overhead flickers out.

“So do not,” Sarge says, “fuck it up.”

The light flicks back on, buzzing merrily. Sarge leans away.

“Which you will, of course, by virtue of being yourself,” Sarge declares. “Anything less would be out of character! So it’s only a matter of time before this crashes and burns.”

Grif suddenly remembers why he hates Sarge. Vehemently and viscerally. “Oh yeah? Fuck you too, old man,” he sneers.

“No, thank you,” says Sarge neatly.

“That’s _—_ _that’s not what I—!_ ”

“Good luck, Private Grif!” Sarge says, scoops up his helmet and, apparently self-satisfied in having given _whatever the fuck_ that talk just was, leaves without another word.

Grif stands there, absolutely seething. What the  _fuck_? What's Sarge's problem? Why does he need to butt his head into everything that doesn't concern him? Why does he feel the need to _ruin_ things going perfectly well without him?! Why can't he just be _—_ _not infuriating_ for once _—_?!

“Dios, ojalá pudiera comer palomitas de maíz _(God, I wish I could eat popcorn)_ ,” Lopez sighs. “Como una maldita livre d’amour  _(This is just like a shitty romance novel)_.”

“Whatever, Lopez,” Grif snaps without thinking.

“Lo que sea que digas, idiota. Ya has cavado tu propia tumba _(Doesn’t matter what you say, dumbfuck. You’ve already dug your own grave)_ ,” Lopez says.

And then the closet door cracks open, and Simmons’s head pokes out. Grif, suddenly, remembers what he was supposed to be doing. And that Simmons has been in the closet listening to the whole conversation.

Grif stares at him. Simmons stares at Grif.

“Wow,” Simmons says. “That conversation didn’t go as planned at _all_.”

Lopez cackles in Spanish.


	33. Heterosexual Olympics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Who's gonna beat you up for being gay--Donut?"

Grif’s brain does a rewind of everything Sarge just said. What’s damning? What can he play off? How much more bullshit can he come up with to layer on his bullshit cake to prevent the whole thing from falling apart? “ _Playing for hearts_ ”--isn’t there a card game called Hearts? Boom. Lie number one. “ _Giving you my blessing_ ”--harder, but uhh, maybe he could say it’s a religious thing…? Sarge recently converted to Pantheism? Sarge is leaving Valhalla to join a Panite commune run by religious beach dwarves? Right, okay, that sounds plausible, lie number two.

 _A good idea would be to leave it at a one-night stand so you can pick up your crushed feelings alone and in the dark like true men_ \--aw, fuck, Sarge said that out loud, didn’t he? No, it's--it's still salvageable, Grif can do this, he's  _gotta_ be able to or else--

“I can explain,” Grif says. Because the best solution is to just start talking and see what happens, right?

“I just,” Simmons says, sounding faint. “I had no idea, you know?”

Lopez is lounging on the kitchen chair and drinking motor oil through a straw.

Simmons comes out of the closet (no, not that way, _stop it, brain_ ) and stands, hands hanging awkwardly at his sides, in the middle of the hallway. He looks… lost. Oh, shit, _Grif_ did that. “No, I, c’mon,” says Grif, feeling like he’s just kicked a dog. “It’s not… as bad as it sounds?”

Simmons jerks to attention. “Of course it’s as bad as it sounds!” he snaps. “Sarge thinks I’m sleeping with _you_!”

It’s the same offended, snooty, condescending tone that Simmons always uses--the one that Grif should have hardened himself to a long time ago--but for some reason, it feels like the clean slide of a knife right through the armor plates. He feels like he can’t breathe. Fuck, what’s wrong with Grif _now_? (Why can’t he stop expecting Simmons to be nice? What the fuck _was_ he expecting from Simmons?)

"Un golpe devastador _(A devastating blow)_ ," Lopez narrates. "¿Cómo se recuperarán? _(How will they ever recover?)_ "

“You okay?” Simmons asks suspiciously.

“Who, me?” Grif says, a little bitterly. (Christ, Private Grif, what’s your _damage_?) “Yeah, I’m fine. Course I’m fine. 'm always fine.”

The fuck does Simmons care? Grif wants this conversation to be over. Can it be over yet? Can Grif go lie down in bed and turn the lights off and stare at the wall for a few hours yet?

“Hey, I’m just trying to be considerate, okay?” Simmons says, a little defensively. “He assumed _you’re_ fucking _me_ , too.”

"Un error crítico del equipo visitante _(A critical mistake from the away team)_ ," Lopez whispers.

“I,” Grif begins.

Grif drags his brain out of the tar pit, because he’s not out of the fire yet and right now he has to function, and does a very quick recalculation from Simmons’s point of view: Simmons makes gay jokes in Grif’s room. Sarge overhears. Simmons doesn’t see _any_ of Grif’s flirting. Three weeks later, Simmons overhears Sarge lecturing Grif over Simmons’s virginal honor, with Grif confused and defensive and upset. Therefore:

Grif raises one finger. Points it directly at Simmons. 

“Correct,” says Grif with conviction. “ _I’m_ the victim here.”

“Y ahora vemos una nueva jugada audaz de Private Grif _(And now we see a bold new play from Private Grif)_ ,” Lopez narrates.

Simmons starts looking uncomfortable. “Um, well… Look, I tried to correct it, and…”

Grif shakes his head. He thinks he feels smug, but his teeth are clenched. “Avoiding the blame for your actions,” Grif tsks. “Simmons. You _know_ that the only reason he thinks we’re banging—”

(Simmons’s face turns a blotchy red.)

“--is because _you_ couldn’t stop talking about your massive hard-on for me at the top of your lungs—”

“I wasn’t talking about my hard-on for you!”

Grif pauses. “Okay, uh, was that bad wording or did you mean to imply that you actually do have a hard-on for me that you’re not talking—”

“NO TALKING AND NO HARD-ON. AND THIS ISN’T…”

Simmons stops. Inflates with all the words he’s trying to say. Deflates, slowly, with acceptance.

“Okay,” he says. “The fact that Sarge thinks we’re… we’re together, _might_ be kind of because of what I said.”

Grif nearly falls to his knees and bursts into derisive laughter. Holy shit. Holy _shit_ . Did he just dodge the bullet of a _lifetime_ . Oh, praise the Lord and Jesus and Korean Baptist Jesus from down the street, he’s just managed three weeks of doing no work purely by staring inappropriately at Simmons’s ass and now he’s gotten Simmons thinking that Grif had _nothing_ to do with Sarge’s sudden conviction that Grif and Simmons are playing grab-ass in the Warthog’s back seat at all hours of the day so now Simmons won’t have a gay panic and freak out and never speak to Grif again and now they can go back to being friendly straight friends who never have to worry that their copious fake-relationship lies to get out of work will bite them in the ass. Fuck. YES.

Grif should maybe feel a little bad about leading Simmons around the blame game by the nose but, for _whatever reason_ , he really, really can't muster up the sympathy.

“Don’t look at me like that! I don’t know what to do!” Simmons cries. He’s started wringing his hands like a middle-class housewife. Grif's sympathy rolls over and drags itself back out of the grave. No, this is is bullshit, Grif needs to stop forgiving this asshole for everything he does; if Grif doesn't hold Simmons accountable, who will?

“Hmm, yeah,” says Grif, stepping viciously on that twinge of weakness, “but considering that awful, _awful_  situation is _entirely your fault_ , I think that you should probably, y’know, do the responsible thing and fix it." He crosses his arms. "Alone. And by yourself.”

“ _I tried!_ Okay, I tried to set the record straight, I didn’t _want_ him assuming that you’re--you’re--gay, or something, not that I, not that I have a problem with gay people, I know plenty of gay people, like whole entire friends who were real people who were gay…”

“Uh-huh,” says Grif.

Simmons throws up his hands. “I thought he’d forget about it! Okay?! I figured that since he never brought it up again, he’d just figured that it was one of our stupid jokes gone wrong! Which it _was_!”

Yep, right, just a stupid joke gone wrong. Because it’s the end of the goddamn fucking world if Simmons and Grif were to ever, you know, be involved like that. Yep. It’d be fucking awful. “Uh-huh,” says Grif, with that odd, bitter note in his voice that he doesn’t know anything about.

“Can you stop being mad at me?!” Simmons says. Wow, he sounds panicked. “I’ll try and fix it, okay?! I’d have already done it if I knew! I just--don’t know how!”

“Hey, here’s a fucking idea,” says Grif. Then he swallows real hard on his tongue, because that came out real nasty, and there’s only room enough in this base for one passive-aggressive bitch. “You ever wonder why Sarge hasn’t been riding our asses these last couple weeks?”

Simmons hesitates. “Because we’re not a real military and he can’t actually give us orders?” Simmons says, flatly.

"Cristo y Jesús _(Christ and Jesus)_ ," Lopez mutters.

“No, dumbshit,” says Grif. “Well, okay, that too. But it’s because he thinks we have gay cooties. And he doesn’t wanna walk in on any weird-ass PDA shit, so he’s avoiding us like he thinks we’re the ultimate Schrodinger’s trap of potentially having got our hands down each others’ pants whenever he wants to talk to us, and he doesn’t wanna risk it.”

There’s a silence.

There’s a longer silence.

Grif isn’t even sure if Simmons is breathing, but hell if he’s gonna check.

Lopez slurps his motor oil.

“Okay, Lopez, can you fucking leave?” Grif snaps at Lopez.

“Estoy esperando el choque y la quemadura  _(I'm waiting for the crash and burn)_ ,” says Lopez. "Quema que resulta que los cabrones son malos incluso en eso _(But it turns out you fuckers are bad at even that)_."

Grif grabs Lopez by the forearm and drags him out of the kitchen and throws him into the hallway and would slam the door if there was one but, alas, there is none. He glares at Lopez until Lopez, snickering, mopes away into Sarge's room.

“Are you telling me,” Simmons says, slowly, “that being mistaken for being in a gay relationship with you is… a _good_ thing?”

Grif dusts off his hands, which aren't actually dusty but feels like the thing to do after throwing your team's annoying monolingual robot out of the kitchen. “Gee, it  _c_ _ould_ be,” says Grif, still a tad grumpily.

“ _Not_ a reputation-destroyer that will get my ass beat in the locker room?” Simmons asks.

“What reputation? _What_ locker room? Who’s gonna beat you up for being gay-- _Donut_?”

"You don't know that he wouldn't!"

"It's  _Donut_ , Simmons!"

"But it's weird, and--and, y'know, uh, disingenuous, like false advertising or something, and it, it changes... things...?"

"Changes  _what_?" Grif snaps, because he's rapidly losing patience for this thing that Simmons can't even put words to.

Simmons gesticulates. Now even _he_ looks irritated with his own bullshit. “Are you just saying this so I don’t feel bad for making shit weird?!” Simmons says instead.

“Make _what_ weird?!” Grif retorts, and fires back (as if quoting Private Jackson from all those years ago): “Nothing’s _weird_ if you’re actually straight! Straight dudes can do whatever the fuck they want and it’s never weird!”

Simmons stands bolt upright.

“Well, that’s--that’s good!” Simmons says. “Because I _am_ straight! Very straight! Super duper straight!”

“Yeah?!” says Grif. “Good for you! So am I!”

“Yeah?!”

“Yeah!”

“Great!” says Simmons. “So I guess we’ll just--keep it up!”

“Yeah, I guess we’ll—”

Grif stops.

“...We'll what?” he says.

“Of course!” says Simmons. He looks like he’s physically steeling himself, and that red color is creeping up his neck again, but yeah, he--he doesn’t look like he’s fucking around. “It’s like a high-level slacking technique, right? Putting on a show to get away with the most amount of profit. And it’s all okay, because I'd never ever have an unnecessary neurotic obsession about my reputation, and if we pull it off, it just-- _proves_ how straight we are!”

Grif hesitates. Okay, something definitely feels off with this logic, but? Does he really have any other options? “...Yyyyyyyes? That… makes sense…? Wait, no, pkay, let me get this straight,” says Grif. “We’re going to feed Sarge’s suspicions about our illicit horny gay honeymoon to… get out of work… which is a good thing because we get to, y’know, get out of work, but we’re _also_ going to do to prove… how… straight we are…?”

“Yes,” says Simmons, with a remarkable level of confidence for someone doing a feat of mental gymnastics that Grif had previously thought impossible.

“So,” Grif says, slowly, “we’ll physically affectionate, purposefully displaying PDA to make everyone awkward, probably gazing soulfully into each other’s eyes, possibly even holding hands, calling each other our usual pet names and having in-jokes, and generally spending most of our time with each other."

“Yes,” says Simmons.

“And this makes us straight,” says Grif.

“Yes,” says Simmons.

Grif thinks about this.

“This... makes sense?” says Grif.

“Yes, it does,” says Simmons.

“...It does?” says Grif.

“Yes,” says Simmons.

“Yes?” says Grif.

And then Simmons crosses the room and shoves his hand in Grif’s hand and holds it hard, wraps his fingers all the way around Grif’s palm like he’s daring Grif to pull away, and looks Grif in the eyes. He nods vigorously. “Because we’re straight,” he says again, like he’s proving a point.

Simmons’s grip is firm around his hand. Grif can feel calluses on the webbing between his fingers. Grif looks up at Simmons’s irritated, sharp-eyed glare, feels his pulse thudding in his ears. For some reason, being straight feels a lot like wanting to get his other arm around Simmons's waist and slide his hand into Simmons's back pocket if he'd let him.

“Right. Yes. Because we’re very, very straight,” Grif says firmly.

Heterosexuality is so complicated.


	34. Late Examples

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Then don’t ask. Like, duh.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello i try not to have long a/n but this chapter deserves some preface:
> 
> 1\. i am here to posit unfriendly/unpopular grif sibling ideas! i know some of y’all have awesome grifsib headcanons and they’re all awesome and i love them and i might even use them in another fic—but those headcanons are not in this one
> 
> 2\. tucker mentions that grif had a gf—yknow, the one “with a dick”? that's the character being referenced
> 
> 3\. warning for usage of the word “trannie” and other shitty transphobic and homophobic talk, but not in relation to grif's ex-gf
> 
> 4\. also general warning for donnie like, as a whole human being, because i tried to recreate as faithfully as possible the raw power of the real person he's based off of lmao
> 
> 5\. here's a flash index of terms related to living in hawaii you might like to know: "haole" = white person; "slippers" = flip flops; "mainland" = refers to the 48 continent states in the US; "Longs" = common convenience story similar to CVS; pidgin = local creole slang/amalgamation of hawaiian+japanese+tagalog+korean+buncha other shit that happened during plantation days and is usually not spoken by white people unless theyre douchebags trying to be cool; "micros" = micronesians; Iz = Israel Kamakawiwoʻole, who was both a wonderful singer and a native hawaiian sovereignty activist, may he rest in power
> 
> 6\. thank u to the kind and lovely aryashi for beta. ilu dear!!!!!

Grif goes to bed that night and thanks all his lucky stars that he’s not in love with Simmons. Because that, no matter what the value judgment of Grif and Simmons _dating_ would be—yeah, no, being in _love_ with Simmons would be Real Bad. You can inherit the ways you love people, like you can inherit a tendency towards OCD, or a bad tendency to drink, or a malignant, vicious heart disease.

 

* * *

 

 

Take, for example, the man living in the basement of the Makiki District Park community library, whom Dex would have gladly avoided meeting if Kai hadn’t seen him and dragged the haole shirtless shithead over to where Dex was trying to fix his bike chain. Trapped without any escape, as Kai tends to coincidentally capitalize upon without fail. A real entrepreneur in the making, skeeving deals off her own brother.

“Hey, Dex! I didn’t know you were here today!” she says, quite brightly. “Oh, right, duh, I haven’t introduced you—Dex, this is Donnie!”

“Donnie” is sunburnt and covered in grey chest hairs. His hair is frizzy from the beach and just as steel grey as his chest. His wide lips look fleshy and wrinkled, and are melting downwards like old wax into a sycophantic, sneering smile. His chest is taut with muscle. His belly is a mass of loose skin. His chicken legs end in overgrown toenails and the brown leather slippers that are so popular on the mainland among people who enjoy paying eighty dollars for slippers you can’t even wear to the beach. (Shit, dude, just go to Longs? They have rubber slippers for like, five dollars? They even have shirts there, sometimes?)

“Hi,” says Dex, and nothing else.

Donnie’s bushy grey eyebrows go up. His smile becomes even more distasteful. “Well, I certainly don’t see the family resemblance,” Donnie says. He laughs at his own joke and pinches Kai’s butt, and she giggles and puts an arm around his waist.

What Donnie means is that Dex’s face is brown and flat, with the thick neck and thick stomach and thick arms and legs and prematurely thinning hair of most Native dudes. Kai has a nose with bridge and a sickly lighter shade of skin from being indoors all the time. Kai collects fat around her hips and thighs, not her stomach. Kai’s hair is long, taken care of, well-oiled, and wavy.

Also, Dex is eighteen and Kai is fourteen.

“Cool,” says Dex. “Okay, I’m leaving now.”

“What, you’re gonna walk home?” Kai says. “With that bus’-up chain?”

Dex eyeballs Donnie again. “I sure am,” says Dex.

“Well, we only just met,” says Donnie.

“Good. We can keep it that way,” says Dex.

“Naw, that’s not the way to get ahead in this world,” says Donnie. “Look--I’m sure you’re a nice guy, or something--you got a _hell_ of a nice sister, I tell you that--I tell you what. I give you some advice, me to you, prime, quality life guidance.” (Grif’s eyebrows travel up his forehead at the butchered pidgin accent.) “Take it from me, okay, when you go around, making friends, networkin’--don’t turn down other people’s advice, you gotta introduce yourself to everyone you meet, you gotta go with the classic handshake, you know? None of this ansy-pansy trannie bullshit, limp wrist, weak grip-- _definitely_ not over vidcam, nothing ever gets built over webcam. Take it from me, yeah? You know the reason why the kids like you aren’t going anywhere? No _eye contact_ . Kids can’t _do_ it, too busy with some nonsense about sexual identity crisis and racial identity crisis and gender identity crisis, like people got the time in the world for that—” Donnie scrunches his face-flesh-flaps into an expression even more mockingly pandering ”--yeah, look, wah wah boo-hoo nobody cares, shut up and shake the damn hand, alright? Nobody gives a fuck if you’re a shemale or a he-it or a they-her— _listen_ to other people when they fucking talk to you and _make the business deal_. Better yet, I give you some better advice—”

“I’m okay, thanks,” says Dex.

“You sure about that? You sure you wanna be like the rest of those fucking micros, bent on putting their heads in the sand, get all tough and big and proud about being poor as shit and having lost a colonization with the U-S-of-A? Your sister knows what’s up. I work my ass off, remodeling that library from scratch with these two hands, using my engineering degree for good work on this shithole of an island--it’s just that curse I’ve got, you know, can never stop thinking, something about my brain just never can settle down, just something about being a proper MIT grad--you know what MIT is, right? Look, I’ve been building a boat with these two hands--”

“I’m _really_ okay,” says Dex. Kai starts laughing.

“--a fucking _boat_ , made of wood, carved that shit myself. Like the fucking Polys used to do, except not shitty. And you know what my advice to you is? Do the god damn thing yourself. Fuck other people. You’re a good listener--good listeners make good learners, you’ll go somewhere, kid, not like these other fuckin’ micros--these fucking monkeys with their dicks out, lumbering around, hating school and going to work and then complaining why life don’t hand them one paycheck on a silver platter--no, I’ve been telling your sister, I’ve been building a boat, and I’ve been fending those shithead micros away from the library, and I’m telling her: ho, she got a _body_ , you know? She’s got a ticket _out_ of this place. Men go so fucking ape stupid for this ass—” Kai, of course, giggles “--and if she look like this _now_ ? She can go anywhere. She can get a whole plane ticket if she want. Can travel across the whole mainland if she likes, just flash a little skin and say _ooooh mister_ take me along in your truck. Had a girl like that just last year--taught her everything she needed to know to get off this junkyard of an island--‘cause look, you know, I’m a realistic dude, I know I’m a little stupid--not that stupid, because I know I’m stupid, but I know I go a little ape stupid when I see a good lookin’ girl. I know I go a little ape stupid when I see a girl like _Kai_ . ‘S not my fault. Girls these days, _shit_ , they can go _anywhere_ , they developin’ tits and ass by age _nine_ or some shit, they can walk right over you because you’re too busy drooling all over yourself--you and me, kid, if you get your neck out of that shithole micro crowd, fermenting in the Hawaii ghetto filth, you better _watch_ it for these girls, you can never tell if the girl you get is eighteen or eleven! Shit! My advice, kid, is you better watch your dick, or at least watch who knows where you’re putting your dick--Kai, you’re fine, just play stupid and you’ll get away with anything, bet the police would let get away with anything if you let them have their way for a bit, take it from me—”

Dex walks away. Kai is absolutely howling in laughter. Donnie keeps fucking talking even when Dex is halfway across the soccer field.

Dex spends about a week trying not to bring it up. He really does. He tries really, really fucking hard to let it go. But—man. _Man_ . Some people are just… Like, Dex didn’t even _know_ someone like that motherfucker could exist? Where the shit did Kai _find_ him?

“In the Makiki community library, _obviously_!” says Kai. “He lives in the basement and scares the ‘fucking micros’ away from smoking pot in the storm drain.” She snorts loudly.

“He’s awful,” Dex blurts out.

“Oh, psh, yeah!” Kai says. “But _man_ , does he know how to use his—“

“I _don’t_ want to know!”

“Then don’t ask,” Kai says. “Like,  _d_ _uh_.”

Dex knows he’s on thin ice. Kai won’t snap back, but she’ll leave, probably for more days than will be legal for a fourteen year old. He doesn’t even know if he has the words for what he wants to say.

“I just think you could do better,” he says, at length, because it’s a phrase he’s heard other people use and he doesn’t know what else to say.

Kai makes a face. “Who gives a fuck about better? Live shit, die young, Dex, c’mon!”

“At the very least it'd be nice if he wasn't—if he wasn't an awful asshole who…”

( _Destroys you so you don’t have to do it yourself?_ )

“Hello? Earth to Dex? I don’t need him to not be awful,” Kai says cheerfully. “I just need him to be fun! But, oh, speaking of—“

“—wait—“ says Dex, realizing where this is going.

“—there’s a party I forgot was happening! Happening like, _right now_! Okay bye see ya Dex—“

“—wait—!”

—and Kai does not return from her party for six days. After forty-eight hours, Dex is probably supposed to legally assume her dead, or some shit. (The ice gets thinner every day.) She comes home chewing a wad of chewing gum, complaining the flavor’s out. Spits it out on the sidewalk.

Two weeks later, Donnie stops coming around.

“Flavor’s out,” Kai says. Flicks her tongue piercing at him from between her teeth and grins. Dex thinks that Donnie lasted as long as he did because Kai just wanted to spite Dex for what he’d said—but on the other hand, Kai has better things to do than be spiteful. Spiteful is never Kai's game. Spiteful requires a level of commitment Kai doesn't have. Or maybe being spiteful just isn't fun enough.

 

* * *

 

 

Or take, for example:

The way Mom falls in love: airy, floaty, like a three-hundred-pound butterfly, buoyed up on a happy-hour ethanol cloud, flitting from flower to handsome, boy-toy flower. She likes the ones that are just as airy and silly as she is, so they can giggle at each other when they fuck on the living room couch.

“If you love someone,” Mom says, “it’s best to let them be, Dextie. Let them be a little stupid! It doesn’t matter, anyway.”

“She’s dating a _senior citizen_!” Dex cries. “She’s fourteen!” (This, of course, being before Donnie had disappeared, and before he’d learn later to let Kai’s boyfriends disappear on their own time.)

Mom fiddles with two shades of almost identical bright neon pink lipstick, adjusting her blouse in the mirror. Hot date tonight, or something like that. She takes another drink of beer. “Oh, psh, I had a sugar daddy at thirteen.”

“That’s _not_ a sugar—he’s not even _rich_ , Mom, he lives in a library basement.”

“She’s getting an early start,” says Mom. “She’ll get the hang of it!”

 _“Mom_!”

“Stop _hovering_ so much,” Mom says. “She’ll be fine. Plenty of condoms to go around.”

“She hasn’t been to school,” Dex begins, “she hasn’t done _any_ homework, she’s not even making friends with anyone her own age, just hanging around fucking parking lots, drinking god knows what—“

“Would you stop being such a _spoilsport_?” Mom complains. She throws down her lipstick tube on the vanity, nearly missing the beer can. “Fuck! Like school’s so important! As if a diploma changes anything! Changed a whole lot for you, did it? Working at Domino’s?"

Dex goes silent.

“Let her have her fun, yeah?” Mom says sweetly.

 _Let her have her fun_ sounds a bit like the bucket-list license a person gives to the dying. Dex wonders what about his family makes them assume they won’t live past thirty. Dex stays silent.

“Or,” Mom says, adjusting her earrings, “be more like her, Dextie. Lighten up a little. Life’s too short.”

Easy for Mom to say. Mom is in love with anyone with a dick—not in _lust,_ but truly, genuinely in love. Life for Mom is wonderful and roses all the time. Buying flowers love. Looking at wedding dresses love. Paying her boyfriend’s debts love. Imagining a white picket fence with a dog love. Singing from the rooftops love, which Mom actually does, singing along to every Iz song ever sung, perfectly in tune and not understanding a single Hawaiian word. She is never single. She’s never been “just broken up with.” She always has someone there, parades of nice men with bubblegum personalities, too stupid to hold their own jobs, too stupid to do any damage, too stupid to ask Mom to spend her entire paycheck on treating them to nice massages, too stupid to tell Mom to forget to buy Kai’s textbooks for the sixth year in a row. Mom is entirely the master of the domain of her draining wallet; her self-destruction is in nobody's hands but her own. Mom loves life. She loves loving. Nothing better to do on this fucking island.

 

* * *

 

 

Or take, for example:

Dex had one girlfriend before he got drafted. Shailene Hashimoto was recruited for women’s volleyball to Santa Clara one year after they broke up. They dated for all of two months.

She was... fine.

Actually, she had a bad habit of binge-watching as many Asian horror films as she could in a single night and being unable to sleep for days. She liked the beach and burnt like bacon even with her tan, and hated jumping off high cliffs into the ocean until she actually managed to jump. Her winged eyeliner was almost always ugly, but she thought wings were so pretty and tried so hard every morning to pull it off and sometimes it wasn't even half bad. She had a killer side-eye whenever someone fucked up her pronouns. She thought lizards were cute and dogs were gross, which Dex would have been fine with—white picket fence and a big fucking lizard, hell _yeah_.

(She was so wonderful. She was so lovable. She was so fun.)

She once talked about him applying to Santa Clara with her, even when she was still in junior year and only just beginning to talk with the college recruiters. But Dex had suspected, even then, that you can inherit the ways you love people, and he hadn’t wanted to find out. One day, without warning, he stopped texting her for twenty-one days straight, then let her break up with him over a phone call.

Better to quit while you’re ahead.

 

* * *

 

 

“Agreed,” says Jackson. “The friends-with-benefits thing is always the best option. Marriage shouldn’t even be a blip on your radar until you’re past thirty-five.”

Their outpost, sitting stubbornly in the middle of its shitty tundra, has a little glass bubble sitting on the top of a tower, like a bullet-proof crow’s nest. Not the _safest_ guard tower, in Grif’s opinion, but there’s also no one else for miles, and the three-sixty-degree glass is a hell of a view of the frozen wasteland they’re… defending. Or whatever.

Grif mostly enjoys watching the snow collect at the top of the bubble. Feels like they’re hanging out inside a snow-globe turned inside out. Jackson and Grif take turns tapping the glass until the snow falls off, which is by far the most exciting part of their job—especially when Grif’s paired with Jackson, whose sense of humor can never compare to Wesley’s. Nah, dude, not with the middle-aged English professor haircut, no fucking way.

“Not like there’s a lot of options around, dude,” says Grif, draping himself along the bottom of the bubble. “All dudes at this outpost.”

“Fucking men is more fun than fucking women,” Jackson says. Which should be vulgar, except that Jackson’s got those ugly little glasses and the English Professor haircut that make everything he says sound like the thesis in a dissertation. “You should give it a shot,” he adds, like an afterthought.

“Wow, _that’s_ pretty gay,” Grif says. “C’mon, dude, you can just come out of the closet. Nobody cares.”

Jackson shakes his head. “No, I’m serious. Dating women is a competition. You have us men on the Guys Team, and you have the women on the Ladies Team. And the Guys Team dukes it out with the Ladies Team for the right to not be a lonely basement-dwelling loser. If you win, you get the girl as a prize. Right?”

Grif gets the distinct feeling that both agreeing and disagreeing would be a trap—disagreeing would be betraying his “team,” and agreeing would be betraying how _fucking stupid_ of an idea Grif thinks that is. Goes to show how smart dudes in glasses are, even if they _are_ pretty.

“Sure, that sounds legit,” says Grif, and snorts.

“So sometimes you don’t _want_ the relationship to be so hard,” Jackson says. “Everything’s more fun when you’re playing with your team. Your teammates have your back. They understand you. They don’t criticize you or nag you or make you do your laundry when you don’t want to. They’re on _your_ side, not the opposite side. It’s you and them against everyone else.”

Grif squints. “Isn’t that called being… _friends_?” Grif asks.

“Exactly,” says Jackson. “That’s what I said. It’s not gay because Parker and I are friends.”

Grif squints even longer and harder. “Seems like an odd thing to do with your… friend,” says Grif.

Jackson looks at him funny, and at that moment Grif holds absolutely still, buffs all his defenses and braces for impact, like at any second Grif is going to be outed as _too_ curious, _too_ inquisitive, _too_ invested in the going-ons of the Ambiguously Gay Elephant sitting in the corner.

But Jackson just shrugs. “Nothing’s weird if you’re actually straight,” he says.

Grif raps on the glass until the snow falls off and says nothing.

 

* * *

 

 

(Or take, for example—)

The morning after Simmons holds Grif’s hand, Grif jolts out his half-dozing to the sound of his own alarm beeping at seven in the morning.

No. _Fuck_ that. Fuck this. Fuck everything. Grif doesn’t even turn it off. Grif rolls over and shoves his head under his pillows and goes back to sleep, or whatever sleep he can manage. He drifts in and out. The alarm won’t shut up.

Eventually, Simmons opens the door and turns the alarm off for him, and leaves as quietly as he can to—shockingly—let Grif sleep in. Grif just wants Simmons to come back. But he doesn’t say anything, and Simmons leaves.


	35. Thanksgiving Trials

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grif chews through the last of his garlic bread like he could make Donut feel his teeth gnashing through it like some sort of weird proxy voodoo doll.

Grif drags his sorry ass out of bed at ten in the morning after a fitful dozing session to find Simmons sitting on the common room couch, head leaning on his hand, staring at nothing, until he notices Grif and jerks into motion. Sarge is fiddling with a tablet and nursing a mug by the coffeemaker.  

“Morning,” Simmons says, a little stiffly.

“Mmghgh,” says Grif. He shoves his hand in the cereal cabinet.

Sarge looks up from his tablet over his glasses. Looks at Grif and at Simmons and back.

Simmons sits at the plastic kitchen table while Grif dumps something crunchy and sugary into a bowl and, apparently needing something to do with his hands, pours a cup of coffee, fixes it with sugar and milk, and passes it to Grif.

“I don’t drink caffeine,” Grif mumbles, despite the fact that he probably desperately needs caffeine at this given moment.

“It’s decaf,” says Simmons.

So—what, Simmons (who drinks coffee stronger than hell itself) specifically brewed decaf just for Grif? Grif inspects the liquid. It is, indeed, the nearly-white color of heavily diluted coffee, in exactly the way that Grif fixes his coffee on the occasion that they actually possess decaf.

Simmons does a little pissed-off chin nod, as it to say: _C’mon, don’t leave me hanging, asshole, take the cup_. Grif stares at the coffee, feeling a little bit like the earth is tilting.

“Thanks?” says Grif, eventually, being too tired to really think of anything else to say, and takes the mug.

Simmons shrugs awkwardly and fiddles with his fingers.

Sarge packs up his tablet and coffee mug and high-tails it without a single word.

Simmons watches him go in near-confusion. “What’d I do?” Simmons whispers. “Why’d he leave? I wasn’t—I wasn’t trying to be flirty, I just thought, like, if the relationship thing were hypothetically happening, then hypothetically I should try and be nice to the other person, but I didn’t even…?”

Didn’t even _what_ , Grif’s brain wants to know.

Grif watches Simmons fidget in the kitchen chair, exactly like a deeply-uncomfortable internalized-homophobe does when pushed to fake-flirt with his friend… or, perhaps, like a blushing newly-wed greeting their lover on the morning after their wedding night. Depends on the point of view, doesn’t it? Depends on what, say, a sergeant intending to keep his nose as far out of other people’s business might expect to see, right?

Grif drinks his milk-coffee and tries not to grin.

So now they definitely know this fake-dating thing works.

 

* * *

 

 

Which means that, now that Grif has gotten some glucose in him, they need to make a plan.

“If we’re really, actually doing this fake-dating thing,” Grif says, “we gotta set some guidelines for what fake-dating looks like. Which I call dibs on describing, since I’m pretty sure you don’t even know what real dating looks like.”

Simmons crosses his arms. “How would you know—?!”

“Shhhhh,” says Grif. “Let the professional speak.”

See, fake-dating Simmons, in Grif’s opinion (as Grif describes more or less to Simmons), should look absolutely no different from real-friending Simmons—

“And since when are friends?” Simmons interrupts.

“Okay, okay, then real…” Grif looks at Simmons. He’s _already_ worked himself into a corner by attempting to define their relationship. “Real-teammating…?”

Grif stifles a yawn. Simmons looks increasingly doubtful. Shit. Whatever.

The point is, they sit around, preferentially choose each other’s company over everyone else, shoot the breeze at all times, talk shit about everyone else, talk shit about each other, argue, call each other endearing pet-names like “kiss-ass” and “asshole,” and every time Sarge comes over the horizon, Grif and Simmons studiously look like they weren’t doing anything gay until Sarge, convinced that they were, in fact, being riotously and raucously gay, gets suspicious and uncomfortable and leaves, which is virtually identical to what they’ve been doing for the last—oh, seven or eight years, now? Give or take—

“That’s not what happens!” Simmons interrupts again.

(Oh, buddy. Does Grif has some _news_ for Simmons.)

“ _Okay_ , okay, fine,” says Grif. Fuck, he’s so tired that his eyes won’t focus. “The point is, we should be able to change _absolutely nothing_ and still appear to be dating as hell.”

“I dunno if that’s really…” Simmons begins. “Grif, you look kind of shitty.”

“Yeah, I know, it’s my face.”

“No, I mean, you look exhausted,” Simmons says.

Grif attempts to respond and is foiled with another yawn.

“Uh, I’ll take a nap or something,” he says.

“Seriously do that,” says Simmons.

Grif lays down and feels his entire spine sigh with relief, along with most of the rest of his body. “Aw, fuck, that’s good,” he says. “I guess wake me up if Sarge blows something up?"

They’re sitting in the shade of a tree that’s becoming a frequent haunt; it’s shady but warm, with grass that isn’t too scratchy, a nice hill with the perfect incline to be mostly horizontal but still propped up enough to look at the sky. (Simmons joked about carving their initials into the tree, as if his new recent hobby is to give Grif minor heart palpitations.)

“Wait!” Simmons says. “What am _I_ supposed to do if you go to sleep?”

Grif cracks open an eye and shrugs. “I dunno, dude, sleep with me?”

Simmons visibly inflates with stress.

“I mean _nap_ with me,” Grif says quickly, because he very genuinely had not intended that innuendo. “Take a nap. Sleep _next_ to me. Look, anyone comes by and sees us taking a nap side by side, they’ll be like, oh shit, better let the sleeping lovers lie, and fuck off.”

Simmons’s mouth flattens. “Can you not call us lovers?”

“What, too nineteenth-century for you? You wanna be boyfriends like we’re in high school?”

Simmons is beginning to stress-inflate again.

“We can be the Ambiguously Gay Duo,” says Grif. “Like Batman and Robin.”

“Please never imply that about Batman and Robin ever again. I have very firm headcanons about how the Batfamily works.”

“We can be Bros-Before-Hoes,” says Grif. “And also Bros-Before-Generally-Other-Bros, unless this is a poly thing?”

Simmons begins tearing up grass in his hands, as he always does during Nervous Thinking Time, which also means that Simmons has checked out to think something over in his head. “So we’ll _look_ gay… without actually _doing_ anything gay,” Simmons says, slowly.

“Yeah! That’s the whole _point_. See, I’m full of great ideas.”

“Didn’t we sleep together before we were fake dating?” Simmons says.

“That was, uh,” says Grif. “That was a heterosexual sleep-together. We’re talking about that other time we took a nap, right?” Unless Grif somehow _missed_ sleeping with Simmons?

“But there was literally zero difference between the heterosexual nap and the gay nap!” Simmons cries.

God fucking damn, did Simmons have to be so smart and stupid at the same time? How come this man and his mental gymnastics are so high maintenance? How come Grif keeps getting suckered into these high-maintenance people? “Okay, look, it’s still a heterosexual nap, got it? Because we were both straight dudes then, and we’re both straight dudes now, so both naps are straight.”

“Then how’s anyone going to know it’s gay by looking at it?” Simmons asks irritably.

“Because they’re _expecting_ to see something gay. The whole beauty of fake dating is that you don’t actually have to change anything,” says Grif. “You do the exact same things you did before, but now it _looks_ different. Simple.”

“False,” says Simmons.

“Oh, what, like you’re some kind of fake-dating expert, now?”

Simmons does that thing where he extends his neck as high up as he can go with the sheer pompousness of what he’s about to say. (Does wonders for showing off his genuinely nice neck. Very biteable tendons. It’s just a fact, not Grif’s opinion.) “If you do the exact same thing, then that means either the nap _now_ looks too straight, or the nap _before_ looked too gay. But it definitely can’t have been the second one, so it has to be the first.”

“I’m pretty sure you’re overthinking this,” says Grif.

“Well, there has to be _some_ sort of difference between having a friend and having a—a—”

“A Dick-Before-Chicks?” Grif supplies.

“—a _significant other_ ,” says Simmons. “It can’t just look exactly the same but somehow _be_ different without any noticeable difference to show for it. Otherwise, you wouldn’t hear any of those stories about people who started dating their best friend and could never make it work because they were so entrenched in a pre-existing platonic relationship.”

Grif’s eyebrows go up. “Wow, we’re friends, now? Since when?”

“You—you know what I mean!”

“No, I don’t,” Grif says grumpily. Simmons is getting between Grif and some much-needed sleep, and this really, really isn’t a subject that he’s keen to dissect. He has the feeling that it’ll fall apart like sand in his fingers if he tries. “I dunno, maybe they shouldn’t have tried dating a platonic friend? Platonic friends are fine, too? They should stick to dating their friends who they have palpable sexual tension with.”

Simmons visibly blanks. “Well, I guess so, but… what does that have to do with us?”

“Uhhhhhhhhhhhhh,” says Grif.

“Maybe this discussion isn’t relevant to us because we’re not friends,” Simmons says, at length.

“Right,” says Grif, quickly. “Yes. That’s it. That’s exactly it. Because you’re an annoying suck-up, and I’m a lazy do-nothing.”

“But the argument still stands,” says Simmons. “You can’t just carry on the MO of a platonic relationship and expect it to look like a romantic one!”

“Oh my god, Simmons, trust me, we’ll look fine.”

“But that’s like saying that we _already_ looked like we were dating!”

There’s no real answer to that that doesn’t send both Simmons _and_ Grif running for the hills.

“Okay, you know what?” Grif says, because he might not have started this conversation, but he’s definitely going to end it. “You’re right.”

Simmons narrows his eyes. “Any time you say that I’m right, I get the feeling that it’s a trap.”

“We _do_ have to make it gayer,” Grif concludes.

“Uhh, okay, wait a minute—”

“No, you’re absolutely right, Simmons,” says Grif. “We absolutely have to make sure there’s a clear distinction between our Before relationship and our After relationship.”

“This is definitely a trap and I hate this,” says Simmons.

“You’re the one who insisted,” Grif says, entirely unrepentantly. “Uncross your legs and move over.”

“ _Why_?”

“I’m gonna make the nap gay, Simmons, what do you think?"

Simmons looks at Grif like he’s some sort of incubus here to eat his dick, if incubi were fat Hawaiian dudes who were too lazy to take a shower this morning.

“We can’t prove that we didn’t look like we were dating before this if we don’t change anything now, Simmons,” says Grif.

Simmons groans and sighs and mopes and rolls his eyes and drags his feet but does, eventually, gingerly, stretch his legs out and leans against the tree, and then continues his suspicious stare.

Grif puts his head right on Simmons’s leg like it’s a pillow. Simmons is so tense Grif wonders if he’s having some sort of cyborg-limb lock-up.

“Boom. Now it looks gay,” says Grif. “Happy now that we’ve proven that we are doing our part to look gayer than we did before?

Simmons, frankly, looks too overwhelmed to say anything in response, which Grif takes as a yes. “Cool,” says Grif. “Good night!”

“You asshole,” Simmons hisses. “This means I _still_ just sit here and do nothing while you take a nap!”

“Hey, if you don’t come up with the gay ideas, you get the short end of the gay stick.”

Simmons makes an irritated noise. “This is stupid,” he mutters.

“No, this is a prime napping position. Shut the fuck up and let me cat-nap.”

For two whole, blessed seconds, Simmons shuts the fuck up.

Then Simmons starts squirming, trying to shimmy his way out from under Grif. Grif groans. Well—nothing unexpected, he guesses. Simmons is only in this for the PDA and getting Sarge to go away, so he’s frankly surprised Simmons put up with it this long...

Simmons scoots downwards until he’s lying down and Grif’s head is resting on his stomach. “Your head was on my cyborg leg,” says Simmons. "It'd be too hard."

“Oh,” says Grif.

Resting his head on the soft concave space of Simmons's stomach  _does_ feel nicer. He can feel Simmons’s soft breathing against the back of his head. Grif tries really hard to not broadcast whatever the fuck kind of spinning flip his heart is doing, but he’s not sure it’s working. Grif doesn’t even dare look at Simmons’s face.

“Bits of your stomach are still hard from the metal plates,” Grif hears himself say.

“Shut up. It’s the best I’ve got. Also, _you’re_ hard.”

Grif chokes.

“Wait, no, I didn’t mean it like that,” Simmons says quickly, “I was just trying to make a joke!”

“Nah, it’s okay, babe, you know I—”

“Don’t you _dare_ do the Tucker impression.”

Grif starts snickering. The motion rubs Grif’s shoulders into Simmons’s side. Whatwith the muted sun, the clear sky, the dirty grass, the warmth of Simmons's body, this entire scenario is gathering the distinct sense of unreality, and Grif fully expects himself to wake up from this dream at any second.

“Okay, whatever you say, dear,” says Grif, with as much sarcasm as he can muster. “Is this gay enough for you?”

“I—it’s not that I _need_ it to be gay! I’m just pointing out the flaws in the structural integrity of your argument! It matters if we’re going to pull this off!”

Simmons is still lying there like a dead fish, which just makes Grif laugh harder. “Yeah, fine, whatever,” he says. “Can I go the fuck to sleep, now?”

“Like I’ve ever been able to stop you before,” Simmons retorts.

“Damn fucking right,” says Grif, and closes his eyes.

 

* * *

 

 

Grif doesn’t fall asleep for thirty minutes. Simmons’s entire body is stiff with tension, but he doesn’t move away. At some point, the sun shifts onto Grif’s face, too bright even against his closed eyelids, so he turns his face away and winds up with his half his nose pressed right into Simmons’s shirt.

“God fucking dammit,” Simmons whispers to himself.

Grif tries not to overthink it.

The metal plates of Simmons’s stomach have warmed up in the sun. Grif listens to Simmons, eventually, make himself breathe a little easier.

 

* * *

 

 

Grif wakes up and Simmons is asleep with his head propped up against his own cyborg arm and his organic one resting on his stomach, just brushing Grif’s hair. Grif wonders how many heterosexual points they’re going to get for being able to do this outrageously gay shit without freaking out because they’re just _so_ firmly secure in their own heterosexuality. Probably a bajillion, right? Yeah, eat shit, Jackson. Grif closes his eyes and goes back to sleep.

He has never been so sure that Sarge won’t come breathing down their neck than he is right now. He is so, so glad that his sleep will finally, for the first time in years, go completely undisturbed by his asshole teammates.

 

* * *

 

 

“WOW!” says Donut’s voice. “LOOK AT YOU TWO, ALL SNUGGLED UP LIKE—”

Grif flails awake and jams an elbow into Simmons’s stomach (“ow!”) and kicks Donut square in the pelvis. Donut shrieks and clutches his codpiece.

Donut wails, “Oh god I just wanted to see what was happening at Red Base—”

“NO AND GO AWAY, DONUT!”

Simmons is wheezing and glaring at Grif. _Fucking_ Donut.

But then Donut goes crying to Sarge that Grif is picking on him, like some kind of shitty tattle-tale in preschool, which means that Sarge gets all kerfuffled and ruffled and demands to have “a team meeting” with only Grif about “proper Red Team teamwork!” which is mostly just thirty minutes of telling Grif that he’s a disgrace to the Red Army and by god Donut might not be the best soldier but the least Grif could do is not make everything worse with his team-undermining self!

At which point Grif, still running on more sleep debt than he’d ever allow under normal circumstances, snaps, “Then he shouldn’t have come fucking _meddling_ while Simmons and I were—”

Sarge immediately claps his hands over his ears. Grif immediately claps his hands over his mouth.

“LA LA LA LA I CAN’T HEAR YOU,” Sarge says loudly.

Grif grits his teeth. “Oh my god, I wasn’t going to say anything personal, okay?!” Like _hell_ Grif’s sharing more than he _absolutely has to_ with _Sarge_ , of all people!

“I DIDN’T SEE ANYTHING, I DIDN’T GO LOOKING FOR YOU—”

“Good! That’s the way I--wait,” says Grif, “ _did_ you see us?”

“NO! NOTHING! I SAW NOTHING! I REFUSE TO BE PRIVY TO THE POSSIBILITY THAT PRIVATE DEXTER GRIF, A PERENNIAL MASS OF DISAPPOINTMENT AND GREASE—”

“Keep your voice down—!”

“—HAS AN ACTIVE SEX LIFE, THANK YOU!”

Grif groans into his hands. “Fine! Okay! Good! That’s the way I like it too!” He’s spent the last seven years not letting a single one of these clowns know anything more about him than absolutely necessary, and he’s not going to change that now! “So now go tell _Donut_ to get his powdered nose out of our business!”

Sarge lowers his hands.

“Hmmmmmmmmmmmm,” says Sarge.

“What,” says Grif.

“Well—you know how Donut is,” says Sarge. “Has a certain— _stiff will_ about him, if you know what I mean… He’s real good about respecting no for an answer _sometimes_ , but other times, when there’s some good gossip to be heard...”

“So what? He’s going back to Blue Base in like, half an hour, isn’t he?”

“Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm,” says Sarge.

“... _What_?” Grif says.

 

* * *

 

 

“So it looks like I’m moving back to Red Base for a bit!” says Donut cheerfully. “Isn’t that great?! We can have one of our fun, friendly, Red Team family dinners agai—”

 

* * *

 

 

Grif retreats to his own room like a sulky fucking teenager while Donut putters around the kitchen, making cheesy potatoes and baked asparagus stalks out of ancient canned goods he’d dug out of Blue Base. Eventually, Simmons pokes his head in.

“Shoes off,” Grif says immediately. “What’re you doing here? I thought you were helping Donut?”

Simmons shudders. “He said I was breathing down his neck and making him feel weird while he was cooking the potatoes,” he says, without meeting Grif’s eyes. “Lopez is helping, so I guess that means everything is going to be either covered in motor oil or ten layers of hot sauce. Also, it’s almost done, so he says you should come out and stop, quote unquote, sulking in your room like a fucking teenager.”

God, Donut is so irritating, Grif thinks.

“God, Donut is so irritating,” Grif says aloud.

“Tell me about it,” Simmons sighs.

Not exactly constructive advice, but it does make Grif feel better.

So Red Team sits down for their lovely, friendly, reunion family dinner, or whatever the shit this is supposed to be. Donut serves chicken breast, asparagus, cheesy potatoes, and garlic bread that he got from… somewhere. Grif immediately pops the garlic bread in his mouth. Oh, hey, this actually tastes... good?

This means that Donut didn’t cook it. Definitely Lopez.

“Well?” Donut says. “How is it!”

“Awful,” says Grif.

“Di eso a mi puta cara, perra _(Say that to my face, bitch)_ ,” Lopez says.

“But not the asparagus and the potatoes, right?” Donut says. “That’s the parts I did!”

Grif makes a mental note not to touch either. “Those are especially awful,” Grif says.

“You didn’t even try it!” Donut complains, putting together another plate and passing it to Simmons.

Simmons, slowly, takes the plate. Puts it down in front of him, like he’s received deployment orders to the front lines.

Grif looks at Simmons’s plate.

Simmons looks at Grif looking at Simmons’s plate.

Grif looks at Simmons looking at Grif looking at Simmon’s plate.

Grif looks away.

Simmons looks away.

“Well, at least Donut is back from being diabolically tortured by the Blues,” Sarge says, with a dull sort of obligatory enthusiasm.

“Hooray _(Hooray)_ ,” says Lopez, with his awful, flat, text-to-speech voice.

“You bet I am!” Donut says cheerily. “And yes, Sarge, it was _awful_ ; Caboose has absolutely zero concept of using natural lighting to his advantage. So many windows and he’s not using any of them!”

“What windows?” Grif asks.

“Yeah, isn’t his base a carbon copy of ours?” Simmons says, who has taken the opportunity to not even touch his fork.

“ _We_ don’t get windows,” says Grif.

“It’s tactically unsound for your military base to have windows,” Simmons says.

“We made some windows,” Donut says airily.

“What, like,” Grif says, “you just—punched a hole in the steel wall, or…?”

“Why, yes,” says Donut. “What about it?”

Grif and Simmons look at each other. Sarge and Lopez look at each other. Grif and Sarge look at each other. Simmons and Lopez do not look at each other because Lopez would probably punch Simmons’s lights out if Simmons ever tried to share a significant look with Lopez.

At length, Grif says, “Okay, Donut, I’ll bite. _How_?”

“Caboose is very strong!”

“Need to get Red Team a heavy-weight like that,” mutters Sarge.

“Porque yo, el equipo rojo de peso pesado, no existo _(Because I, the Red Team heavy-weight, don’t exist, I guess)_ ,” says Lopez.

“Some people like a little adventure with their man,” says Donut serenely. “But—jeez louise!—even after all that effort, you know, he just kept all the shutters up! Barely went outside! Most days, he wouldn’t even talk to me.”

Grif and Simmons look at each other again.

“Shouldn’t you be at Blue Base _with_ Caboose, then…?” Simmons asks. “Like, keep him company or something?”

“He kicked me out because I told him he shouldn’t be talking to the Epsilon unit until four in the morning. When I’m just trying to look out for him! No sleep hygiene at all!”

“Right. How worrying,” says Grif. “Bad _sleep hygiene_.”

“I wonder what’s up with that!” says Donut.

“Es porque todos sus amigos están muertos _(It’s because all his friends are dead)_ ,” says Lopez.

“You’re right, Lopez! Too much caffeine _is_ bad for you!”

“Deja de pretender que me entiendes _(Please stop pretending you understand me)_ ,” says Lopez.

“Man, we have so much catching up to do, Lopez,” says Donut. “I’ve really been brushing up on my Spanish lately! How _are_ you?”

“Estoy completamente comprometido a morir mal entendido y no escuchado, sin haber logrado nada _(I am fully committed to dying misunderstood and unheard, having accomplished nothing)_ ,” Lopez says. “¿Y cómo estás? _(And how are you?) "_  

“I’m doing well, thanks!”

“Espero que te disparen y mueras _(I hope you get shot and die)_ ,” says Lopez.

“Thanks, Lopez! I’ll get to work on that soon, hopefully! How about you, Sarge?”

“Hhmgmgh,” says Sarge.

“Fascinating! And you, Grif, Simmons?”

Simmons opens his mouth.

“None of your business,” says Grif.

Donut pouts. “Aww, don’t be like that! You can tell me the good deets! Why, just earlier I saw you and Simmons—”

Simmons opens his mouth again.

“You didn’t see anything,” says Grif.

Simmons shoots Grif a look.

“I definitely saw _something_ ,” says Donut, and winks.

“You saw me having a snooze,” says Grif. “Slacking off and not doing my job.”

“And _Simmons_ —”

Simmons opens his mouth _again_.

“—was lying five feet away from me,” says Grif, testily. “Also having a snooze, completely unrelated to mine.”

“That’s not what _I_ —”

“Your eyes are broken,” says Grif. Sarge chokes on nothing.

“ _Grif_?” Simmons says, sounding uncertain.

Sarge is chugging water from his water glass and pretending to not be here. Lopez’s face looks like today is the best day of his entire life.

“Mmmmm, no,” Donut says, “I _definitely saw_ —”

“Private Donut,” says Sarge, with an awkward harrumph that nearly doesn’t make it out of his throat.

“ _Grif_ ,” Simmons says again. “I think I forgot something in your room. Come help me find it.”

Not a suggestion. Grif chews through the last of his garlic bread like he could make Donut feel his teeth gnashing through it like some sort of weird proxy voodoo doll, but does, in fact, go with Simmons. They’re barely in the hallway when Simmons rounds on him. “The fuck are you doing?” Simmons hisses. “What’re you being so cagey for?”

“It’s not his business,” Grif snaps right back, and Simmons hushes him, because Sarge and Donut and Lopez are literally just around the corner. Grif grabs Simmons by the arm and drags them further down the hallway and lowers his voice: “He doesn’t need to know, and we _don’t_ need to broadcast it to him.”

“Isn’t the whole _point_ that we do embarrassingly sucralose-splenda PDA nonsense until people leave us alone?”

“You think Donut’s going to leave us alone if we tell him we’re _dating_ ? He’ll be all over it! He’ll never get his claws _out_ of it!"

“If we go far enough,” says Simmons, with an odd steely look in his face, “then _yeah_ , he doesn’t have any other choice, does he? Even Donut respects the important boundaries.”

What the _fuck_ does ‘go far enough’ mean? Does Simmons hear himself when he talks? Does Simmons think fucking twice about his own implications _ever_? Grif grits his teeth. Gesticulates. Makes despairing and frustrated noises. Flaps his arms some more.

“ _What_ ?” Simmons says. He keeps coming closer every time he speaks. How come this nerdy, angry, stupid, suck-up son of a bitch is so _tall_?

Grif groans and whispers, “Look, I _know_ , okay—”

Simmons makes a gesture for ‘ _I can’t hear you_ ’ and comes _even closer_ . Grif could _shriek_. He wonders if he can get away with putting a hand on Simmons’s chest to keep him away, or—or something.

“Grif?” Simmons says again.

Grif snaps out of it. “I _know_ that’s what we’re supposed to do,” Grif hisses. “But Donut’s an actual clown who has no business knowing anything about me _or_ you! And especially you and me together!”

“I don’t think that’s the point of a fake-relationship?” Simmons says.

“The point of doing a fake-relationship is that you act like it’s real to best simulate a relationship that’s fake,” Grif says, “and if _I_ was having a real relationship, Donut can _go fuck himself_.”

“That’s…” Simmons falters.

“C’mon,” says Grif. “If you had a real relationship going on in your life, one that you were taking seriously, would you want a single one of us assholes knowing anything about it?!”

“I, uh,” says Simmons. “I… dunno, I never thought about…”

“What, _seriously_?”

Simmons shoots him a glare. “Yes, really, I never thought of it! I guess I’d tell you, but…”

When Simmons appears to run out of words, Grif waves the topic away. “Look, I don’t—I can’t stop _you_ from wanting to, I dunno, flaunt a relationship status or go wild with the PDA because it’s a fake relationship or whatever that we’re just doing for shits and giggles and to piss off Sarge”—Grif watches Simmons flush, so yeah, Grif didn’t think Simmons would be the PDA type—“but I don’t see why, if we’re gonna do this fake-dating thing, why I should be spilling my guts about _my_ business— _our_ business—about any relationship! Straight or gay or fake or real or inside-out or upside-down! I don’t want _anyone’s_ greasy fingers over shit that’s important in my life!”

Simmons is looking at him funny. For the first time in years, Grif feels like he’s utterly transparent—like he’s tipped his entire hand, and he doesn’t even know what his hand _is_.

“So—what,” says Simmons, “we’re just gonna… fake-date and… not tell anyone about it?”

“Sarge knows,” Grif says, grumpily. He doesn’t, on second thought, want Sarge to know anything about this, either. Feels like bad luck. “But Sarge won’t pry like Donut does. Sarge will leave us the hell alone with our own privacy, because Sarge actually fucking _respects_ a man’s privacy. And Sarge is the only one who really matters in this situation, because it’s not like Donut can make us do work.”

Simmons doesn’t say anything.

“And Lopez can’t even speak English, so who gives a shit,” Grif adds, on afterthought.

“And Donut,” Simmons says slowly, “probably would just ask for more details if he got any. It’d have the opposite effect that it has on Sarge. So there’s no point in telling him about the fake relationship if we want him to leave us alone.”

“Right,” says Grif.

“So we’ll just… keep doing our fake-dating thing. But without telling Donut. By ourselves. Where… no one can see us?”

“Right,” says Grif.

There’s a moment where both Simmons and Grif reflect on some shit about fake-relationship-trees falling in a forest and no one’s around to hear it, or whatever.

Lopez knocks on the wall.

Grif nearly yells. Simmons _does_ yell.

“¿Ya están listos para salir del armario? _(Are you two ready to come out of the closet yet?)_ ” Lopez asks. “¿Querías besarte y maquillarte? ¿Tomarse de las manos? ¿Tienes una pelea de pelea? ¿O estás contento de perder piro entre vosotros como lo has hecho en la última década? _(Did you want to kiss and make up? Hold hands? Have a bickering match? Or are you content to waste away pining after each other like you have for the last almost-decade?)_ ”

“Go _away_ , Lopez!” Simmons cries.

“The food is getting cold!” Donut yells from the other room.

Simmons makes a disgruntled noise.

“Fuck off, Donut!” Grif says.

“Yeah, fuck off and suck it, uhhh, lightish-Red!”

“Oh my god, Simmons, could you be any more uncool?”

“Yes,” says Simmons promptly. “By a lot, and easily. Is that a challenge? Because I can do it. Don’t tempt me. I’ll do it.”

“No, it definitely wasn’t a challenge, you fucking nerd,” Grif says, but the--the familiarity of the argument does settle him a bit. “Let’s just get back out there, and keep this fake-relationship shtick on the down-low, okay?”

“I’m beginning to think you don’t actually know how a fake-relationship works,” says Simmons suspiciously.

Grif waves him off. Simmons follows him, slowly but surely.

“...'¿Relación falsa?'  _('Fake relationship'?)_ ” Lopez repeats.


	36. Bastardo Opaco

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Wouldn't you like to know!"

Grif now enters a new round of his latest near-least-favorite hobby, which is playing “Guess What Simmons Will Eat Next?” Alongside its even _lesser_ favorite brother, which is “Guess What Simmons Won’t Eat Next?”

But it’s okay, because Grif only plays that game because it’s, like, incredibly obvious. Not because he’s invested or interested or cares. That’s above his pay grade, and also out of character.

Today, when Simmons and Grif come back from their misadventure in the hallway, Simmons is confronting chicken breast, asparagus, cheesy potatoes, and garlic bread. Donut is still talking about something Caboose did. Simmons is scraping the cheese off the potatoes, but only bits of it. He’s cutting the fibery ends of the asparagus off and shoving them to the side, in the obvious “trash” pile, with the garlic bread. Separates the asparagus bits from the garlic bread. Puts the garlic bread on a napkin. Puts the garlic bread back on the plate and puts the asparagus bits on the napkin. Starts tearing apart the chicken, which (by the nature of having been a freeze-dried frankenfood) dissolves into dry, tasteless powder. Simmons scoots the potatoes and garlic bread even further away from the asparagus and chicken. Eventually, eventually, begins to put chicken in his mouth.

“What?” Grif says, at the sound of his name.

“Weren’t you _listening_?” Donut says.

“Floating off to la-la land,” Sarge grumbles.

“You know it,” says Grif, flatly. “Hopeless romantic on cloud nine over here.”

Sarge harrumphs and lets the subject drop, as he does with any veiled reference to Simmons and Grif and their explicit, steamy, illicit honeymoon relationship. Donut looks at Sarge oddly. Lopez glares fucking daggers at Grif, for some reason.

“Sarge, no te enamores _(Sarge, don’t fall for it)_ ,” says Lopez. “Él está mintiendo. En realidad no están saliendo _(He’s lying. They’re not really dating)._ ”

“I _said_ , Caboose wants to go and save Tucker!” Donut says.

“Dios, maldita sea, escúchame _(God dammit, listen to me)_ ,” Lopez says.

“And where’s Tucker?” Grif asks.

“Dammit, Grif, were you not listening at _all_?” Sarge says.

“Escúchame _(Listen to me)_ ,” Lopez says, increasingly irritated. “Estás siendo engañado. Estás viviendo con miedo innecesario _(You’re being bamboozled. You’re living in unnecessary fear)._ ”

“Of course not,” says Grif.

“One day, I will stop being disgusted by your lack of competence,” says Sarge.

“Keep me posted,” says Grif.

Because Grif gives absolutely no shits about Simmons whatsoever, Grif gives himself full license to wonders if he should offer to take the food that Simmons isn’t going to eat. He’s not trying to like, take food away from him, but if he doesn’t want to eat it, if it’s _bothering_ him—they can swap, right? What’s wrong with that? Grif doesn’t really want the shitty chicken anyway; nobody could catch him dead with a vegetable. They can switch Simmons’s potatoes and bread for Grif’s chicken and asparagus. It’s a good plan, right?

But what’s he supposed to do—just up and ask? You can’t say that kind of shit out loud. Then everyone’s like, why’re you going out of your way to offer? And _Grif_ can get away with shit like “oh, well, I was just doing it because I’m a fatass who loves starch and carbs and I love stealing double portions of everything, hurr durr” (which is absolutely true, to set the record straight), but then _Simmons_ gets put on the spot. Hey, Simmons, why’re you letting Grif steal your food? Hey, everyone, look at Simmons who doesn’t want to eat a potato! Hey, everyone, look at Simmons make a decision under the gaze of literally everyone in Red Base! Hey, everyone, look at Simmons be _forced_ to make a decision!

“Sargento, maldito tonto _(Sarge, you god damn fool)_ ,” Lopez says. “¿Recuerdas todas las veces que te quejaste de que no puedes hacer nada porque no quieres interrumpir su fase de luna de miel? Estas siendo jugado _(Remember all those times you complained about how you can’t get anything done because you don’t want to interrupt their honeymoon phase? You’re being played)._ ”

“Donut, what’s Lopez saying,” Sarge says.

“Something about how great you are and how thankful he is to be on Red Team!” Donut chirps.

“Heh heh, good old Lopez.”

“Jugado como un violín, viejo _(Played like a fiddle, old man)_ ,” Lopez says.

“I love playing the violin too, Lopez!” Donut says.

Grif isn’t a particularly analytical person, he doesn’t think. Probably. (Whatever, introspection is for nerds.) He’s not _super_ invested in picking apart the intricacies of a human brain. But man, is it so wrong to wish that he knew what the hell was going on here?

He doesn’t even have the vocabulary to describe what’s happening. Simmons is picking at his food like—like someone picking at a scab, or wondering how to rip a band-aid off, or like an animal caught in a trap, or a lab rat lost in a maze. Simmons is tuning out Donut like he’s got five thousand tabs open in his mental browser and all of them are playing music. Simmons’s eyes are unfocused like he’s staring at the time display in the corner of his cyborg vision, but there’s twenty million displays and they all read a different time. He keeps scraping at the bread like he can’t figure out what to do with it. He keeps pushing the dry-chicken-powder into little clumps.

What’re the words for that? What’s the, the, the clinical language? And if Grif knew it, would they do any better job than he can do with the words he has right now?

—Not, of course, that it’s a super pressing concern. It’s Simmons’s business and well-being, which Grif is not weirdly invested in. Grif is going to shut up and eat some bread.

“Hey, Simmons, I’m putting the chicken in the fridge,” says Donut. “Yes or no?”

“What?” says Simmons, clearly having just checked back into the conversation. He glances at Grif, but Grif _also_ has no idea what’s happening.

“Man, you two are a pair of space cadets, aren’t you?” says Donut. “Sarge, what happened to your firm hand on these two?”

Sarge takes a long, extended drink of water in favor of answering.

“ESCUCHA _(LISTEN)_ ,” says Lopez. “¡Solo llámalos! ¡Obviamente no están saliendo! Están fingiendo todo! _(Just call them out on it! They’re obviously not really dating! They’re faking everything!)_ ”

“I’ll think about it, Lopez!” Donut says. “But first, I need to know if Simmons wants sloppy seconds or not.”

Grif nearly chokes. Sarge does choke. “Do I _what_?” Simmons says.

“Por el amor de Dios, solo escúchame _(For god’s sake, just listen to me)_ ,” Lopez says.

“I,” Simmons begins. “No, I, uh, I’m fine, thanks.”

“Are you sure? You’ve barely eaten!”

“I’m very fine, thanks,” says Simmons, tartly, and shoves a chunk of potato in his mouth.

“Very fine,” Grif mutters under his breath.

Simmons turns a bright pink. Sarge shoots Grif an ungrateful glare.

“LA RELACIÓN ES FALSA _(THE RELATIONSHIP IS FAKE)_ ,” Lopez says. “QUE NO FUE GRIF HACIENDO UN COMENTARIO SLY. ÉL ES SER LITERAL _(THAT WASN’T GRIF MAKING A SLY COMMENT. HE’S BEING LITERAL)._ ”

“No need to insult Grif’s intelligence, Lopez!” Donut says, sliding the chicken tray into the fridge.

“No, no, keep going, Lopez, I’m always in favor of insulting Grif’s intelligence,” says Sarge. “Tell me more about how stupid Grif is being.”

“Eres el único estúpido aquí. Tienes la lana tirada tan lejos sobre tus ojos, cara de oveja _(You’re the only stupid one here. You’ve got the wool pulled so far over your eyes, sheep-face)_.”

“Oh, Lopez,” says Sarge, “your inventive and witty insults towards Grif always bring me joy.”

Simmons begins peeling garlic bread apart and eating the fluffy middle bits, which Grif is inclined to think of as a good thing, but… he’s not really sure? God damn, Grif thinks, not being able to do anything fucking sucks. Like Grif is a side character in a story he’s narrating. But on the other hand, he thinks, nobody’s really the main character in anything, and nobody really has any real ability to change things. The belief in the right to give the fuck up has carried him through every trial, and he doesn’t think it should stop working now.

“Yeah, Lopez, you’re being way more talkative than usual!” Donut says. “I like it! It’s a good change! Much more interesting than Bert-and-Ernie over there!”

“ _Excuse_ me?” says Simmons.

“Excuse _you_ ,” Grif says, glaring at Donut.

“Solo soy más interesante porque inventas mi diálogo para mí _(I’m only more interesting because you make up my dialogue for me)_ ,” Lopez says, sourly.

“Why, Lopez, I would never do such a thing!” Donut replies.

“Eres un bastardo opaco. ¿Cuánto realmente entiendes? _(You opaque bastard. How much do you really understand?)_ ”

“Wouldn’t you like to know!”

“What’s he saying?” Sarge asks.

“GRIF Y SIMMONS NO ESTÁN CITANDO _(GRIF AND SIMMONS ARE NOT DATING)_ ,” Lopez says.

“Grif and Simmons are not dating,” Donut translates.

Grif nearly falls out of his chair. Sarge sits perfectly still.

“Mierda _(Holy shit)_ ,” says Lopez. “Donut. Donut, por favor, eres mi única esperanza. Escúchame _(Donut. Donut, please, you’re my only hope. Listen to me)._ ”

“I’m listening!” says Donut.

Lopez faces Donut, and says, very clearly: “Grif y Simmons están enamorados _(Grif and Simmons are in love)_.”

Donut says, “Grif and Simmons are in love.”

Simmons looks at Grif in panic. Grif feels like Lopez just punched him in the chest. “Now _hold_ on a minute—” Sarge begins, already wearing his uncomfortable face.

Lopez says, in the same clear voice: “Pero la relación entre Grif y Simmons es falsa _(But Grif and Simmons’s relationship is fake)._ ”

“REALLY?” Donut says at the top of his lungs.

“Sí, en serio. Son citas falsas _(Yes, really. They’re fake dating)._ ”

Donut drops his fork. “Grif and Simmons are _engaged_?”

“What?” says Sarge.

“What?” says Simmons.

“What?” says Grif.

Sarge seizes his shotgun. “GRIF, YOU SLY, TWO-FACED—”

“NO I DIDN’T—”

“DONUT IS LYING AND—”

“—LYING SCHEMING PIECE OF—”

“—BECAUSE EVERYONE KNOWS—”

“—LIES AND SLANDER ON OUR REPUTA—”

“—IMPUGNING ON SIMMONS’S HONOR—”

“—NOT A VIRGINAL BRIDE—”

“—FUCK OFF!”

“—SHOUTING, IT’S NOT—”

“—NOT WHAT YOU THINK—”

“—ELOPING LIKE THE YELLOW-BELLIED TRAITOROUS COWARD YOU—”

“—DOESN’T KNOW ANYTHING!”

“—ALREADY MARRIED—”

“—NOT GETTING MARRIED!” Grif shouts. “FUCK! FOR GOD’S SAKE! WE’RE JUST DATING, OKAY!?”

Silence.

Dead silence.

Sarge, slowly, puts his shotgun down. Simmons’s entire face is as red as his own shirt, but he, goddamn him, doesn't contradict Grif. Donut stares at Grif, wide-eyed, the beginnings of a delighted smile beginning to grow on his face.

"Shit," Grif whispers.

Lopez throws up his hands and leaves.


	37. Amateur Pornstars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Fine! I'll do the hot voice!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for like, pg13 material??? no smut but also p risque

The next two days are some of the worst days of Grif’s life.

 

* * *

 

 

“—to really talk about how you two got together,” Donut says. “I’m _dying_ to know the answer! Oh, can I guess? Please tell me there were rose petals involved! Scented candles! Oh, maybe there was a lovely outdoor picnic in the sun, relaxing by the river, scenic trips to the waterfall—”

“No,” says Grif, and leaves.

 

* * *

 

 

Four hours later in the pantry:

“There you are, Grif!” Donut chirps. “Simmons won’t talk to me, but I’ve been thinking: all this shyness isn’t good for your health! Of course you’re entitled to your privacy, but in my opinion, secrets are like blackheads, you know? You have to really _scrub_ to make sure they don’t get any worse, really get in there with your fingers! The problem with just about everything, from secrets to health to socks, is when they start to ferment—”

“Stop talking,” says Grif, and leaves.

 

* * *

 

 

The next day by the coffeemaker:

“Good morning, Grif! So I was thinking that we don’t have to talk, but if you ever need some supplies, I’m your man! I’ve got condoms, which you guys are gonna go through at _twice_ the normal rate, how fun—I’ve always got plenty of lube, take your pick between strawberry, vanilla, banana, flammable, non-flammable—”

“Go away, Donut!”

 

* * *

 

 

Two hours later on the road between Blue and Red Base 

“Grif, if you ever scare me like that, I swear I will put you six feet under,” says Sarge, apropos of nothing.

Grif glares back. “I never said we were eloping! _Donut_ is the one who said it was happening…!”

“Are you saying you _would_ run off with Simmons to get married without telling anyone?!” Sarge demands.

“I—what—I haven’t _thought_ about it? Probably not? Why would we?”

“ELOPING IS A COWARD’S WAY OUT,” Sarge declares. “THE VERY IDEA OF NOT TELLING EVERYONE YOU KNOW, INCLUDING AND PARTICULARLY ME, BEFORE THIS NEW DEVELOPMENT IN YOUR RELATIONSHIP? AND TAKING ADVANTAGE OF YOUNG AND INNOCENT SIMMONS ONLY WEEKS INTO YOUR COURTSHIP—”

“We’re not eloping! And Simmons is _twenty-nine_!”

“I EXPECT A TWO-WEEK NOTICE FOR YOUR PROPOSAL,” Sarge continues.

“STOP,” says Grif, and hoofs it back to Red Base.

“YOU STILL HAVE TO REPORT FOR MORNING TEAM TRAINING EVEN AFTER YOU GET MARRIED,” Sarge hollers after him.

“I don’t go anyway!”

“I EXPECT SIMMONS’S TUXEDO TO BE MAROON AND YOURS TO BE YELLOW!”

“Wh—I’M NOT YELLOW!”

“AND THE HORS D’OEUVRES BETTER BE RED!”

 

* * *

 

 

Grif is sulking on the roof when Lopez’s head pops up through the rooftop trapdoor.

“Oh, thank god,” says Grif. “At least I don’t understand you.”

“Te mereces esto, mentiroso con citas falsas ( _You deserve this, you fake-dating liar_ ),” Lopez says.

“IS HE UP THERE, LOPEZ?” Donut’s voice calls. “Because Sarge just mentioned the maroon and yellow tuxedos and let me tell you, I have _never_ heard of a worst color combination in my _life_! They should both be in matching red for Red Team, although that might bring out Simmons’s pink undertones and not in a good way—”

Grif flees to Simmons’s bedroom.

 

* * *

 

 

Grif hangs out in Simmons’s room and waits for Simmons to be done throwing up the lunch Sarge made. Simmons comes back radiating a heck of a lot of calm for someone whose supposed gay relationship just got grilled by Satan himself. Simmons’s calm smells like handsoap and toothpaste, and he barely responds when Grif starts talking. Xanaxed as fuck, apparently, except without the Xanax. Honestly, the fact that Grif can identify it on sight is kind of creepy.

Grif sighs and groans and resigns himself to carrying the two-man team of just himself and this useless bulimic idiot.

Figuratively speaking, of course. You can’t have a team of two people, and guys don’t get bulimia.

 

* * *

 

 

Donut opens Simmons’s bedroom door _without knocking_. Grif nearly shrieks.

“Oh! Now we’re all together!” says Donut. “We can have a group discussion—like a threeway, but—”

“SORRY I JUST REMEMBERED SOMETHING I HAVE TO DO IMMEDIATELY RIGHT NOW,” says Simmons, and books it.

“Wait, Simmons, don’t leave me—UHHH, WOW WHAT A COINCIDENCE ME TOO,” Grif says, leaps up and barges through the doorway after Simmons.

They collapse into _Grif’s_ room and slam the door and lock it.

“Shoes off,” Grif wheezes. Simmons is too terrified to protest.

 

* * *

 

 

“Donut is a public menace,” Simmons declares, after some time of both Grif and Simmons lying shoeless on Grif’s floor and trying to calm down 

Grif looks at him in disbelief. “ _You_ think so?” Grif says. “ _You’re_ not the one being hounded by him!”

“Where do you think he was when he wasn’t hounding _you_?” Simmons snaps.

Grif rolls over and groans into the floor.

“It was such a good plan,” Grif complains. “Sarge would never overstep boundaries like this…”

“Surprisingly,” says Simmons.

“We were supposed to be left alone…”

“I know,” Simmons sighs.

“Does Donut even know what a boundary is…”

“Yes, probably,” says Simmons.

Grif rolls back over. “That’s a high estimate of Donut’s character.”

“No, I’m _pretty_ sure even Donut wouldn’t walk in on…”

But Simmons falters before he can finish the sentence.

“What’re you suggesting?” Grif asks, knowing full well what Simmons is suggesting.

“I’m just saying… theoretically, he _would_ go away if it was, um… intimate couples time…?”

“So we should fake having sex,” says Grif.

“ _What_? No! I meant that we should put on a porn soundtrack and make him draw his own conclusion!”

“That’s still faking having sex,” says Grif.

“Okay! Okay, fine, yes, we should fake having sex!”

If it wouldn’t have been suspicious as hell, Grif would have narrowed his eyes to absolute slits right now, because Grif hasn’t forgotten the time Simmons stood in the hallway with him and said, to Grif’s _face_ : _If we go far enough, then yeah, he doesn’t have any other choice, does he? Even Donut respects the important boundaries._ (Was Simmons _thinking_ about this before today?—Oh, shit, _was_ he?)

“I don’t see why not if we’re fake-dating!” Simmons says.

(What does it mean if he _was_ thinking about it?)

The doorknob rattles. Simmons squeaks.

“Grif, I’m beginning to think you’re avoiding me,” says Donut’s voice, with that awful, unrepentant tone that makes Grif think that Donut actually _does_ know exactly how annoying he’s being. “Frankly, I think that if you have something to say to me, we should talk it out face to face!”

“Fuck,” Grif whispers. Because now they actually have a plan to deal with this, but the plan is… possibly just as bad as talking to Donut?

Grif looks at Simmons. Simmons looks at Grif.

“I’m going to guess you don’t want to take one for the team,” says Simmons under his breath.

“It’d be out of character,” says Grif.

“It’s so easy,” Simmons whispers. “You just like, I dunno, say in a hot voice, oooh, Simmons…”

“ _What_ ?” Grif says. “‘ _Oooh, Simmons_ ’? What kind of second-rate pornstar do you think I am?”

“Fine! I’ll do the hot voice!”

Having to listen to Simmons make second-rate pornstar noises is _infinitely_ worse. “No! It’s my room! _I’ll_ do the hot voice!”

Simmons holds up his hands. “Go for it! _I_ don’t wanna do it!”

Grif opens his mouth.

Nothing comes out.

Closes it again.

“Well?” Simmons says.

“I’m working up to it,” Grif snaps.

Donut knocks again. “Griiiiiiiiiiif,” he sings, “I know you’re in there, and you know I’m not going to give up that easily!”

Get it together, he tells himself. He can do it. This is a matter of life or death! He doesn’t have a choice!

Grif says, “Uunngh.”

There’s a silence.

“What the fuck was that,” Simmons whispers.

“A sex noise!”

“No it wasn’t! That was a, a groan or something!”

“Newsflash, Simmons, you sometimes groan when you’re having sex! Not,” Grif adds saltily, “that you would know, I suppose...”

“ _I possess a dick and a hand. I know what sex noises sound like_ ,” Simmons hisses.

Why did Simmons have to say that. Why. Like, Grif knows _objectively_ that Simmons jacking off has occurred before but, like, _c’mon_ . Hearing it from his fucking own mouth, out loud, is not a situation that Grif is equipped to deal with. It’s not _fair_.

“So I know,” Simmons goes on, as if what he just said is no big deal, “that what you just made was a shitty and half-assed groan!”

Grif attempts to pull himself together: “You asked _me_ , Dexter Grif, to do something! Of _course_ it’s shitty and half-assed!”

“Should I come back when you’re not jacking off?” Donut asks.

Grif puts his head in his hands.

“Because I’m pretty sure you’ve tried this trick before,” Donut continues.

“ _What_?” Simmons says.

Grif makes a real groan, because he had, actually, been caught neck-deep in some fantasy and jacking off to it by Donut a billion years ago at Blood Gulch, and the motherfucker had just _assumed_ that Grif was doing it to make Donut go away. _Which he hadn’t been_ , thanks, but he _was_ , in an ironic twist of fate, now _actually_ attempting to make Donut go away with implied masturbation, and, perhaps more ironically, now Simmons was _actually_ in the room and not just imagined.

“Uhh, I don’t want to talk about it,” Grif says. “Mission failed!”

“What, we’re just throwing in the towel?”

“Yep!” says Grif, who’s had enough harassment within the last forty-eight hours to last him forever and frankly, he’d rather put up with Donut than have to listen to Simmons talk about fucking masturbating, or have to sit in a room with Simmons while Donut talks about Grif masturbating. Time to abandon ship, boys.

“We barely tried,” Simmons protests.

“Par for Red Team, then,” says Grif. “Let’s get out there and put up with this annoying gayster.”

“Griiiiif!” says Donut.

And then Simmons, without looking at Grif and with terror all over his face, opens his mouth and does a loud, drawn-out, longing porn-star moan.

Grif immediately shoves his hands over Simmons’s face. “The _fuck_ do you think you’re _doing_?”

Simmons shoves Grif’s hands off. “Hang on! Just…”

And then he does the noise _again_ , with the hoarse octave and the breath hitch and the voice crack like he’s getting dragged through the blowjob of his life, except now Grif is _right in front of him, two inches away and frozen_ as he watches Simmons’s head tilt back and his eyelids flutter and his lips falling open and holy shit _holy shit?_

Grif must be dead. This isn’t real, and he’s descended to hell, where he has to watch Simmons make hot noises right in front of his face and he’s not allowed to do _anything about it_.

“Wh,” says Grif. “Hh.”

Simmons looks at him like he’s lost his mind, which he has. He definitely has. He’s hallucinating with his ears and also his eyes. No fantasy-Simmons has ever been so real before, but there’s a first time for everything.

“Nnnmmm. Mhhh,” says Grif.

Simmons says, “Earth to Grif? If _you_ do a sex noise, then he thinks you’re jacking off because it’s your room. If it’s _me_ who makes a sex noise, then he thinks…”

“Ohh,” says Donut’s voice. “Sorry! Never mind! Didn’t mean to interrupt! Have fun and stay safe and use plenty of lube! Also a condom! Actually two condoms! I have spares if you need them! Okay bye!”

There’s the sound of Donut walking away, and then a silence.

Simmons crosses his arms. He’s resolutely not looking at Grif, and he’s got a weird, fixed look in his eye, like he’s just one inch from unraveling into a terrified, embarrassed mess and is holding it together by his fingernails.

“You definitely imitated that noise from a porno,” says Grif.

Simmons gives a hysterical giggle. “Um, okay, yeah, I definitely did.”

Something about the way Simmons says that makes Grif think that he definitely didn’t.

“Not half-bad, though,” Grif says. “Maybe the porn industry takes voice-actors?”

“There’s no way I’d be able to tell Sarge I’m leaving Red Team to be a porn VA.”

“I mean, at this rate you’ll just be on Red Team _and_ a porn VA,” Grif mumbles, and Simmons does another nervous laugh, the one with the doofus grin that’s all lopsided and and cute and embarrassed.

Grif puts his face in his hands and groans and can’t explain why when Simmons asks him what’s wrong.


	38. Sugar Scrub

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Normal as in the usual state of impending and oppressive unspoken feelings held back by a thin, crumbling dam of denial?”

Simmons closes Grif's cracked-open bedroom door and leans against the metal paneling in defeat. “I’m pretty sure we have to change tactics,” he says. “He’s got Lopez on guard duty.”

“That dastardly son of a bitch,” Grif breathes.

This is why Grif hates Donut: the man is uncrackable. _Impenetrable,_ so to speak. You can’t get back at him because he’s too stupid to be played; but the instant you stop trying, he pulls shit like laying siege to your bedroom and waiting for you to emerge with your gay lover so you can talk about your feelings.

“It’s none of his business,” Grif mutters.

“We can wait him out,” Simmons suggests.

Grif hesitates.

See— _l_ _ogically,_ this tracks. Simmons knows, and Grif knows, that the magic of being Grif and Simmons is that whenever you think, “Oh, they absolutely can’t go on like this,” it turns out they definitely, totally can.

Shunted into Nowheresville for five straight years with only five to ten other people for company at any given time?

Paired up with an asshole they can’t stand for guard duty every single day?

Wound up with the world’s stupidest CO?

Wound up with the world’s most annoying recruit?

Wound up in the Nowheresville, Tunnel Edition, for a straight year with Grif as a sergeant in a chain of command he’s underprepared for and doesn’t give a damn about?

Grif—and Simmons, for that matter—they’re not good soldiers. Grif’s a good _time-killer._ A self-entertainer. A day-waster. The little moments of nothing, when the sun doesn’t move and the clock doesn’t tick and none of the words on the page make sense and nobody is running this army and nobody says anything they mean or means anything they say—it turns out that Grif can _absolutely_ go on through those moments, if he’s got the right partner. Grif and Simmons are not status-quo-changers. They’re status-quo- _survivors._

That is to say, Grif’s one and only talent is being able to wait forever.

So this shit with Donut veritably laying siege to Grif’s room, waiting for either one of them to come out unarmed and unprepared? _Please._ You think this is their first rodeo? What kind of slow-burn emotional-repression scrubs do you think they are? And when Simmons says, “We could wait him out,” that makes _sense_ —theoretically. _Logically._ Everything they’ve ever done says that yes, if there’s a shitty status-quo to be endured, they could endure it.

_Logically._

As if logic has ever told them anything useful before.

“Earth to Grif?” Simmons asks again.

“We’re not on Earth,” Grif says automatically.

“You know what I meant,” Simmons says tartly, who’s heard that smart-ass response one too many times to get properly irritated.

“I guess there’s nothing better to do,” Grif says. “Yeah. Let’s wait him out.”

 

* * *

 

 

“I’m just saying,” says Donut to Sarge, “that if Grif and Simmons are gonna be sharing the bed, wink wonk, then _I_ shouldn’t have to share a room with Lopez! I think that Grif should donate his room to me—”

"You come anywhere near my bedroom," Grif interrupts, "and I _punt_ you back to Blue Base."

Donut tsks. "Geez! So touchy..."

 

* * *

 

 

Grif is not going to wait Donut out. Donut needs to stop this, right now, immediately.

After Sarge has gone to bed at the ripe old hour of seven o’clock, and Simmons has scurried back to the safe haven of his own bedroom, Grif walks right up to Lopez’s bedroom where Donut is spending the night and bangs on the door.

Donut opens the door with a bright, cheery smile and a charcoal sugar scrub still on his face. (Where’d he even get the—no, never mind.) “Oh! Grif! H—”

“You gotta stop,” Grif says.

“Stop what?” Donut asks.

“You know what you’re doing,” Grif says.

Donut blinks. “I don’t, actually! What _am_ I doing?”

“What are you _doing?”_ Grif repeats in disbelief. “You’re—you—this— _psychological warfare,_ that’s what!”

Donut thinks about this. “No, I don’t think warfare was covered in my AP Psych class,” he says.

“Don’t give me that,” Grif says. “You’re trying to get me to admit to having _feelings.”_

“Why would I try to get you to do that? I already know you have feelings!”

“What? No,” says Grif.

“Yes, Grif, everyone has feelings! Like, every day, almost!”

Grif squints.

“Do you, uh,” says Donut, “think that feelings are not normal to have—”

“I’m not getting psychoanalyzed,” Grif says.

 _“Excuse_ you!” Donut says. “Psychoanalysis is _nonsense_ and everyone knows it! I subscribe only to the phrenological schools of thought, thank you very much!”

“I don’t know what that is and I don’t want to and also I don’t care. I’m not talking about my feelings and you can’t make me and you need to _stop_ prying into my business.”

Donut looks genuinely floored. “Prying? Me? I would never! What kind of gossiping midwestern househusband do you think I am?”

“I don’t care! I just—”

“Because let me tell you,” Donut says, “I don’t talk _nearly_ enough to be a midwestern househusband! Maybe Southern. Do you think I could be a Southern househusband? Ohh, but I always wanted to be cool and trendy like the West coast—”

“DONUT,” says Grif. “FOCUS.”

“No me hagas venir allí _(Don’t make me come over there)_ ,” says Lopez from behind the door.

“All I want,” says Grif, “is for you to swear you’re not going to stick your gossiping West-coast househusband nose into my business!”

“But I feel so distant!” Donut complains. “What _happened_ to us, Grif? I feel like we never _talk_ anymore!”

“Just the way I like it,” says Grif.

Donut gasps. “You don’t mean that!”

Grif groans. _Why_ does every conversation with Donut have to be like pulling teeth, except all the teeth have puppy-dog eyes? (Oh, geez, that’s not a great mental image.) “Look—Donut. Just _say it._ Say that I don’t have to admit to any cheesy dramatic feelings if I don’t want to, and then I can go back to doing nothing and you can go back to making everyone uncomfortable and everything can go back to normal.”

“Normal as in the usual state of impending and oppressive unspoken feelings held back by a thin, crumbling dam of denial?” Donut asks.

“Yeah, that one.”

Donut sighs. His shoulders droop. Makes a whining noise.

“What now,” says Grif.

“Denial is so bad for you but it’s so _easy,”_ Donut sighs, a little dreamily, like someone talking about a cake when they’re on a diet. “Nothing like unbelieving in your feelings hard enough to make it slightly more fake...”

Donut hangs his head.

“Okay,” Donut mumbles.

“Okay, what?” says Grif. “I need to hear you say it.”

“Nobody on Red Team has feelings and therefore I shouldn’t ask about them,” says Donut.

Grif breathes a sigh of relief. “Alright,” he says. “We’re cool.”

There’s a silence.

“Soooooo…” Donut begins.

“What now,” Grif says dully.

Donut claps his hands together. “Tell me all about Simmons!”

“WHAT DID WE JUST TALK ABOUT,” says Grif.

“We talked about me not asking you about your feelings!” Donut said. “Which, like, I dunno why you’d bring that up out of the blue like that, but whatever!”

“I was referring _specifically_ to you asking about me and my feelings with the--the Simmons thing! What did you _think_ I was talking about?!”

Donut looks at him like he’s crazy. “Please, Grif, I know you’re only dating Simmons for his hot bod!”

 _“WHAT,”_ says Grif.

“Yeah! Two guys, clean friendly sex! A whirlwind fling, a fun friend-with-benefits! No need to be ashamed!” Donut says cheerfully. “I know how it is, when you just start banging and you’re in the honeymoon phase and you’re totally in love with the idea of being in love! But after the twentieth reach-around and you’ve got sand up your—”

“STOP,” says Grif. “STOP TALKING. I DON’T WANT TO KNOW.”

“Anyway, I figured, there’s absolutely no way Tucker’s right—”

“What does _Tucker_ have to do with anything?! Where did that segue come from?!” Grif demands. “—Wait. Wait a minute—”

“He’s _so sure_ you guys are super secretly in love,” Donut prattles on, “so when _Lopez_ said you guys were in love, I was like, oh no! I might have to owe Tucker those twenty bucks! And also twenty blow—”

_“Donut—”_

“—darts!” Donut finishes. “Blow-darts to send to Junior for his little whatchamacallit—”

“Tucker thinks we’re in love?”Grif echoes, feeling… odd.

“—for Junior’s birthday gift! Which are _really_ hard to find in the desert, let me tell you. So I was trying really hard to be positive—”

“Tucker thinks we’re in love?”

“—when Lopez said you guys were in love, you know, because I wanna be a good friend and Doc had this thing about being a so-called Negative Nancy—”

_“Tucker thinks we’re in love?”_

“He says you were broadcasting it from space,” says Donut. _“_ He’s _convinced_ you guys were each other’s one true love! Destined soulmate! Endgame ship!”

Grif hesitates. “What do boats have to do with anything...?”

“ _I_ said that he was being ridiculous,” Donut says matter-of-factly, rather than answering, “that a little friendly sexual tension wasn’t uncommon between dudes, and there’s no way you two are in love! The idea that sex and love are the same thing is such a juvenile concept, and you guys are the spitting image of heterosexual friends-with-benefits!” Donut pats Grif on the shoulder. “It’s okay. I’ve got eyes like an eagle! I know what’s really going on with you two! Nothing wrong with having some sexy dates for fun with a good friend.”

“Okay, let me get this straight,” says Grif.

“Yeah?”

“We’re dating… but we don’t like each other,” Grif says.

“Yeah!”

“And we’re banging,” Grif says. “But we’re not gay.”

“Of course!” says Donut. “Anyone can tell just from looking at you!”

Grif puts his hands together and takes a deep breath. Tells himself that this is not a _bad_ thing. It’s not what they’d intended, but it’s--it’s not a bad thing. It’s not. It’s _not_. Donut is a fucking idiot and it doesn’t matter what he thinks and wasn’t Grif the person who didn’t want other people knowing anything about his business anyway?

“Tucker’s absolutely ridiculous sometimes,” Donut says, rolling his eyes. “Honestly! You two, in love! A friendship and a sexual attraction does not a romance make. I mean, look, no offense and all, but… Simmons is _obviously_ not your type, you know?”

“Not my type,” Grif repeats flatly.

“Simmons is lovely, but between you and me, I dunno how well he’d fare in a relationship!”

“Really,” says Grif.

“Doesn’t seem like a really stable commitment! Sometimes I get the feeling that he’s a little unsteady? Like, as a person?”

“A little unsteady,” Grif says.

“Yeah! So probably not exactly prime dating material...”

Grif closes his eyes. Tries to go to his happy place. Tries not to think about how Tucker, who wasn’t around for _any_ of their shitty fake-dating charade, thinks they’re in love. And Donut? _Donut_ doesn’t think they’re in love?

_Simmons isn’t prime dating material?_

“And what was all that about us being in love and eloping?” Grif says, very carefully.

Donut shrugs. “You did say that you weren't eloping! I guess I must have translated it wrong. Y’know, I think that my Spanish isn’t quite as good as I think it is, sometimes?”

 

* * *

 

 

Grif slams open Simmons’s door. Simmons nearly falls out of bed.

“Simmons!” Grif declares. “Donut thinks we’re not in love! _We have to be gayer_!”


	39. Nine Takes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What does “being in love” look like?

After Simmons is done having his snit about “what do you mean we have to be gayer” and “for god’s sake what did you do this time” and “you did WHAT,” Grif and Simmons sit down on Simmons’s floor like a pair of middle-school girls having a sleepover, and get to discussing one tiny, itty-bitty, insignificant set-back:

What does “being in love” look like?

“I thought we covered this,” Simmons complains. “Didn’t we? The whole thing at the tree, with the gay naps and being the Ambiguously Gay Duo who looks exactly the way we did before, but now the Unambiguously Gay Duo?”

“No, it’s different, because before we were just doing the ‘we’re mostly the same chill guys but now we’re dating’ thing, which means we could just be like, banging or something. Now we have to look like we’re in _love_. And to look like we’re in love, we have to know what being in love looks like!”

“The fact that you’re explaining this with the wild hand gestures of an alien theorist from Ancient Aliens doesn’t really convince me,” says Simmons.

“Simmons, oh my god, aliens are real! We _fought_ them!”

“We fought a singular alien!”

“Who then immediately knocked up Tucker who then gave birth to Junior, who is a Blue, so _therefore_ we’ve fought aliens plural.”

“Junior was a _toddler_ ! That’s like saying Red Team fought a _two-year-old_!”

“You think Sarge would even fucking _hesitate_ to fight some two-year-old wearing a full blue-jeans outfit—”

“If _anyone_ was wearing an entire outfit made of jeans then of course Red Team would fight them, but—”

 

* * *

 

 So they got a little off topic. Take two: What does “being in love” look like?

“We don’t know anything about being in love and therefore we’re going to get everything wrong and then crash and burn and then probably die,” Simmons cries. “I’m too young to die, Grif!”

Grif holds up a hand. Takes a deep breath. Simmons is about to get _schooled_ in the art of love. “Relax, my young Padawan, I know everything there is to know about being in—”

“You insult the Jedi Order by using their terminology when you don’t know _shit_ about being in love, Grif, don’t lie.”

“The Jedi Order was a bunch of useless conservatives who deserve to be insulted and you know it,” Grif replies.

“Too soon, Grif,” Simmons whispers. “Too soon.”

“They’ve been dead for _hundreds_ of years, Simmons, get over it!”

“If we were in love, you’d respect my strong feelings about Star Wars,” Simmons says saltily, and sits in a corner and mopes like a six-foot-tall _baby_ until Grif promises to help him escape Donut’s wine and cheese hour next week.

 

* * *

 

 

Take three: What does “being in love” look like?

“Uhhh, I figured something like… a shitty apartment?” Grif says.

Simmons squints suspiciously. “Is this a metaphor? Like, ‘love is like a shitty apartment because they both have windows to the soul’ or something like that?”

“Windows to the soul are the eyeballs, Simmons.”

“I know what the windows to the soul are! I was making a joke! And it’s the _eyes_ , Grif, not the eye _balls;_ eyeballs sounds like something that belongs in a serial killer’s collection.”

“Newsflash,” Grif says. “Did you know, _right now_ , as we _speak,_ you contain not _one_ , but _two eyeballs_ in your—”

“Shut _up_ , Grif!”

 

* * *

 

 

Take four: What does “being in love” look like?

“Probably divorce,” says Simmons.

“Not like I’ve ever been divorced,” Grif says, “but I’m _pretty_ sure divorce is what happens when you’re _not_ in love.”

Simmons is looking studiously at the wall. “Well, if you’re in a, a bad spot or something,” Simmons says, “like it’s not working out, or you both really like each other but something’s gone wrong, then it’d be better for both of you to leave the other person alone, rather than, um, staying together for money or some… stupid pride thing, or even because you love each other.”

“Oh,” says Grif.

Simmons is still looking at the wall. “What was this about a shitty apartment?” Simmons asks.

Grif, who’s been about to say something about getting a shitty apartment and settling down and getting to sleep in and having enough food in the pantry and maybe a late-night job so that they can spend most of the day watching movies together before they go off to work and then come back at 2AM exhausted but okay because they get to crawl into bed with each other, says instead: “Uhhh, nothing.”

 

* * *

 

 

Take five: What does “being in love” look like?

“Maybe we can combine out ideas about what love should look like and then see what the commonalities are,” says Simmons.

“Like data analysis for love?” Grif says.

“Yeah!” says Simmons brightly.

“Nerd.”

“I’m only a nerd if the data analysis doesn’t come up with anything,” Simmons retorts.

They make a Venn diagram. The only commonality is “desire to be left alone.”

“Hm,” says Grif.

“That doesn’t look right,” says Simmons.

 

* * *

 

 

Take six: What does “being in love” look like?

“Let’s go ask Donut,” Simmons suggests.

“ _Absolutely not_ ,” Grif replies.

“C’mon, Grif, Donut would _absolutely_ know what love looks like! Isn’t that his whole thing?”

Grif thinks about Donut saying _You guys are the spitting image of heterosexual friends-with-benefits!_ Grif grits his teeth. “I’m somehow doubtful,” Grif says.

“What even happened with you two?” Simmons asks. “Isn’t the whole point that Sarge thinks we’re dating? Who cares what Donut thinks?”

“Well,” Grif says. “That’s, uh, y’know. It was... the way he said it. Uhh. I thought that maybe he might, er, tell Sarge? Or…”

“Wait a minute,” Simmons says.

Grif freezes, like he’s been caught in a lie.

Simmons looks _delighted._ “I just realize--I _don’t_ have two eyeballs! You were wrong! I actually only have one because I lost one from the cyborg surgery!”

Grif bursts out laughing at him, which means Simmons goes to mope in the corner again.

 

* * *

 

 

Take seven: What does “being in love” look like?

“Griiiiif,” Simmons says. “ _Please_ go ask Donut.”

Simmons asking nicely is the worst, because it usually means Grif is going to do it.

“Donut doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” Grif mumbles.

“Donut is the person who’s determining whether or not we’re in love or not,” Simmons says. “So doesn’t his opinion matter the most?”

“Ignore the critics, Simmons,” Grif says in his faux-wise voice. “Do your own thing. Walk only the roads you’d walk for yourself.”

“Which brings us back to the original point,” says Simmons. “We don’t know what road to walk.”

Grif _really_ doesn’t like when Simmons asks nicely.

“He’s not going to say anything important,” Grif warns.

“It’ll be worth a shot,” Simmons says.

 

* * *

 

 

Take eight: What does “being in love” look like?

“Hey, Grif!” Donut says, sitting at the kitchen table with Lopez. “Fancy meeting you here! I was _just_ talking to Lopez about how he killed your sister!”

 

* * *

 

 

Take nine: What does “being in love” look like?

“What’d he say?” Simmons asks.

“Nothing important,” says Grif.

Simmons doesn't push it.


	40. Frost Defrost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prissy? Lame? Screechy? Pushy? High-maintenance?

Valhalla is beautiful, by the way. In case anyone was wondering. That’s definitely what we were all wondering, right? Valhalla’s weather is completely relevant to what we were just discussing.

Like, Valhalla is objectively wonderful. Subjectively, the weather is a tad cold, and there’s snow melting along the tops of the surrounding hilltops more often than Grif would like, but the weather reaches the sixties and even, on good days, seventies and eighties. It’s not so cold that you can’t go out in a single layer of clothes, nor so stiflingly dry like Blood Gulch, nor breezing and blazing like Honolulu. Permanently in a state of transitioning from frost to defrost, cool and sunny simultaneously and never. Valhalla, unlike other places Grif has had to suffer through, is… tolerable.

Grif doesn’t enjoy being finicky about something silly like the weather. Doesn’t enjoy being high maintenance. Preferring his environment to be one way or another is… what’s the word? Prissy? Lame? Screechy? Pushy? High-maintenance? Discontent. Unhappy. Unwanted. Expendable. Impermanent. Insecure. Dangerous. And Grif’s a coward at heart, you know.

It’s not healthy to want too much. You think it’s a mistake that there’s entire religions dedicated to learning how to stop wanting?

 

* * *

 

 

By the time Grif gets his lazy ass out of bed and stops wondering about the fucking weather, every single member of Red Team has pounded on the door and told him he was going to miss breakfast, as if MREs were anything to mourn over. Grif heads into the kitchen, as he does every morning, to see Sarge reading something on a tablet (as always), Simmons fretting over coffee (as usual), and Donut (less usual) sitting on the nearby couch with Lopez—

And there’s nothing wrong with Lopez. Or Donut. Both Donut and Lopez are always around; just because he’s not hanging out in their back pockets like Simmons or constantly aware of how to avoid their shitty ideas like Sarge doesn’t mean they’re not, y’know, on Red Team, and therefore usually in Red Base. Shut the fuck up, Grif. Eat some bread.

Grif eats some bread. It doesn’t taste very good.

“Around here,” says Donut, “is where Tucker and I were holed up--very tiny hole, too, very tight--but honestly there was a whole lot of nothing there, so I don’t see why it was such a big deal that Tucker and I got sent there! Just some old alien junk! Lots of kinds of junk. Junk in the trunk, even!”

Both Sarge and Simmons visibly suppress any reaction to just about everything Donut said.

“ _(Stop talking to me)_ ,” Lopez says.

“That’s what I was thinking! Which is why Tucker send me to go and get help, so we can really get up in there and firmly pry him out of that tight spot!”

“ _(That’s not even a proper innuendo. It’s just the way you said it that makes everything awful)._ ”

“Anyway, Caboose was really bent on helping Tucker, which is odd, because Caboose never liked Tucker,” Donut says. “So I guess if Tucker comes back, there’ll be more Blues in the canyon for us to blow up?”

“ _(More meaningless and delusional war games. Hooray)_ ,” says Lopez.

“I’m so glad you’re here to help us, Lopez!” Donut chirps. “Man, it would have really sucked if you’d had to stay back in Blood Gulch just because Grif’s sister was still ther—”

Grif decides to take his bread somewhere else.

 

* * *

 

 

It still doesn’t taste very good.

 

* * *

 

 

There were some things that Grif was supposed to do today. He had a plan. He hadn’t really called it a plan, but he’d had like, some thoughts about the way he wanted things to go, y’know? The path forward was so clear.

Now he can’t remember any of it. Where’d they go? Was it ever even there? The future had been easy when he’d thought of it. Even fun. Something about flirting?

What the hell had he been doing? As if doing something like flirting blatantly with Simmons could be anything but terrifying, and therefore impossible. Grif’s a coward at heart, after all, and too damn lazy do anything for himself.

 

* * *

 

 

Grif and his half-eaten bread have been hanging out for… some amount of time? Valhalla’s sun has set a handful of times. Better than Blood Gulch. Still eye-burningly long. Fuck if Grif’s going to set the clock on his HUD. Just chilling out at the back of the base. Has the air always been this chilly? Maybe Grif needs more than a t-shirt. 

Maybe this would be better if his bread was liquid bread. Alcohol makes everything better, right? If he wants to be a fucking mess like the rest of his family, that is. Grif’s got some pride.

Probably.

 

* * *

 

 

He hears Donut’s voice off in the distance. Grif moves back inside the base and back to his bedroom.

 

* * *

 

 

Wonders if he can get away with going back to sleep. 

Worth a shot, as Kai would say. He does.

 

* * *

 

 

Someone bangs on his door. Grif would amuse himself with trying to guess who’s knocking, but it doesn’t seem very amusing. He hopes they’ll go away.

The door opens. Simmons peeks through the crack in the dark, the single robot eye glaring red. Simmons is too wise to Grif’s napping spots. He shouldn’t be, Grif shouldn’t have let him get that way. Not that Grif had been trying particularly hard, just crawling right back into his own bedroom. What a fucking joke--"what does being in love look like"; give Grif a fucking break. As if they could have ever pulled that shit off by themselves.

“Really?” Simmons says. “You slept in, and now you’re back here?”

Grif makes a grunting noise. Simmons can take it as affirmative or negative. Doesn’t matter. Simmons doesn’t really listen to half the shit Grif says anyway, which is just marginally better than not listening to him at all like Sarge.

“Sarge is getting ideas about blowing up Blue Base again, or at least annoying Caboose,” Simmons says. “C’mon, fatass, before he ropes me into helping him.”

“Do I gotta do everything for you,” Grif mumbles.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Grif says, and buries his face in his pillow.

Simmons permanently has a bee in his damn bonnet. Always in a snit. Always angry or wound up. Sometimes, it’s just too... much. Too much. Too everything.

“Okay,” says Grif. “Let’s go.”

 

* * *

 

 

Grif goes. Doesn’t do much of anything. Simmons still gets roped into harassing Caboose. Sarge is shouting at clouds or something. Grif feels Donut side-eyeing the empty space between Grif and Simmons at all times. Simmons keeps staring at Grif, keeps lobbing different conversation starters at him. Grif's brain won't even move fast enough to catch them.

Eventually, Grif slips away from the group and goes back to his room.

 

* * *

 

 

He doesn’t see why this song and dance should be fun anymore. Didn't Kai say that having fun was most important?


	41. Local Kids

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s no reason to miss Kai.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first, go check out this super cool fanart that prim commissioned from creatrix!!! http://creatrixanimi.tumblr.com/post/168900741027/primtheamazing-commissioned-me-to-make-a

Grif and Kai don’t really like each other, but they’re siblings, so what’re you gonna do about it, y’know? Oahu was a small island. Everybody knows everybody. There’s only so many teams you can join in a game that size. Only so many people will have your back. It’s—it’s—

Ah, shit, Grif can’t explain it.

 

* * *

 

 

The moment Shailene breaks up with Dex—the moment Dex let Shailene break up with him—he crawls back under the covers with a newly-acquired bottle of Kai’s tequila and waits.

He doesn’t go to school. He’s going to flunk, anyway.

He doesn’t go to work. Who gives a shit about Domino’s, anyway.

He doesn’t answer the phone when the landlord calls. They were probably going to get evicted sooner or later.

He doesn’t answer the phone when Mom calls. Whatever it is she has to say, Grif doesn’t really want to hear it, and she doesn’t come home long enough anyway. The way Grif likes it.

He doesn’t really know what he’s waiting for. For something to be over, maybe. He just doesn’t know what the something is.

He takes a lot of shots and stares at a live feed of KHON’s traffic cams until he passes out.

 

* * *

 

 

He didn’t know what he was waiting for the end of during the twenty-one days when he didn’t answer Shailene’s texts, calls, didn’t answer the door when she banged on the apartment door. Then the relationship ended, and that wasn’t what Grif had been waiting for the end of.

It ended anyway.

 

* * *

 

 

Kai bangs open his bedroom door and demands to know why he got fired from the Domino’s job, which is a fine time for Kai to start giving a damn about money. 

“I was gonna go Jenai’s place. She has an _outdoor pool_ ,” she whines. “Now _guess what_ ! I gotta, like, go to the bank and settle this shit with First Hawaiian ‘cause we _overdrew_ last month?”

Dex doesn’t say anything.

“Dex, what the _fuck_ ! You _know_ Uncle Ed gon’ kill us if we borrow again!”

Dex doesn’t say anything.

“How come you're so _lazy_ ,” she complains, and whirls away in a cloud of alcohol.

 

* * *

 

 

Yeah, that’s Grif. 

Real lazy. Do-nothing. Fat and useless. Does nothing but eat and waste good people's tax dollars.

It’s how you know he’s Polynesian.

 

* * *

 

 

Once, Dex’s ninth grade class went to the Polynesian Cultural Center. Something about government mandated Native Hawaiian history. Dex is supposed to find it enriching, or something.

He stares at one actress, sitting in a traditional leaf-hut, or whatever the shit they’re called, weaving a little green bowl out of ti leaves. She's real big. Fat and sun-baked and solid as a mountain on her ti leaf mat. She smiles, with her big, leathery mouth, and points at the class leaving. “Hui. All pau here. You gotta go, or your class gon' leave you.”

"I'm supposed to research my culture, Auntie," says Dex.

The Polynesian woman keeps weaving. "No culture here, dear."

"It's the Polynesian cultural center. You're doing the..." Dex gestures. "...leaf... thing."

"Aiya, this is just a party trick. I got it from my auntie. She went Kamehameha.”

The only thing Dex really knows about Kamehameha High School is that Kai had the bloodline and the brains to go, but didn’t want to because she didn’t want to learn Native Hawaiian. She called it a waste of time. To be fair, it probably is. The Hawaiian language isn't going to last and everyone knows it.

"It's a cultural trick,” Dex says.

"Culture is a way of life," Auntie says, and winks. "Nobody pays money to see people live."

Auntie didn’t mean it the way that Dex remembers it. But that’s tough shit on her end.

 

* * *

 

 

There’s a flash flood on the day of Dex’s and Shailene’s first date, the kind of rain that fills up the Manoa river and floods the streets and collects in the misshapen intersections and turns the road between Maryknoll Elementary and the field where Punahou Carnival gets held into a water geyser, because the state can’t get its shit together long enough to fill in a damn pothole. Everyone in Hawaii is a chickenshit who drives twenty miles under the speed limit when it rains. Shailene yells at Dex for driving over the H3 in a flash flood, through the damn jungle and through the mountains, just so he can take her out to Starbucks to get their new seasonal drink—peppermint whatever-the-shit, Dex can’t even remember. But Shailene is also endlessly amused that Starbucks bothers with seasonal drinks when Hawaii’s weather always remains at a sweltering eighty-something degrees all year round, and it seemed worth it to Dex.

Shailene remains convinced that Dex was going to get himself killed, driving over the H3 in a flash flood. Dex is personally more scared of the ghost who sits in your backseat if you drive over the Pali with pork in your trunk. She’s real, you know. So are Menehune. This doesn’t convince Shailene that Dex is any less of a crazy person.

The truth is, Dex loves the H3 highway. Unironically, even. He loves being in his Mom’s tiny Toyota Echo, sliding the car between the dotted lines on the highway, like he’s filling in a coloring book. The H3 is a raised highway, one long strip of road with an attempt at a railing, raised on giant concrete stilts that go down hundreds of feet to disappear into the jungle. There’s a moment where the road swells, like the crest of a wave, and the railings and the road disappear behind the edges of his windshield, and it’s just him and his windshield driving through the rain-beaten valleys in the massive mountains towards an endless ocean.

 

* * *

 

 

The KHON traffic cam isn't the same, but it's soothing nonetheless. Stop and start. Downtown traffic. Four o'clock is always traffic jam for hours. It's brain-melting. That's what Dex wants.

 

* * *

 

 

“What you mean, she _broke up with you_ ,” Kai says.

Kai likes hanging out with the weird pot-smoking micronesian dudes at the back of their high school. Their mom has no accent, and neither do Dex and Kai, but sometimes, now, Kai gets the little sing-song pidgin lilt in her voice. Dex wishes she wouldn’t do that. He really wishes she’d just get through Hawaii’s shithole of a public education system and steer clear of all the teen-bruiser weirdos, and he really doesn’t care that she picked up how to improvise on the ukulele from Kainoa, thanks.

Dex doesn’t say anything. He just puts his face back in the pillow. KHON traffic cam is still playing.

“Oi,” Kai says. “Oi. Dex. _Dex_.”

 

* * *

 

 

Shailene is an Iolani chick. Or was, before she got caught with pot brownie in her locker, ‘cuz they’re strict about that at swanky places like Iolani. But when you're the kind of person who went to Iolani, you can go anywhere else, and you stay the kind of person who went to Iolani.

Iolani’s a prissy nerd school. Punahou’s the haole jocks, Iolani’s the Asian nerds, Kamehameha’s the—well, the bigger Polynesian jocks, the ones who beat Punahou’s haole ass before Punahou alumni go off to Tufts and Brown, and Kamehameha grads swing a job as a construction worker, ‘cause thanks for nothing, Captain James Cook. At Iolani, it’s all about “one team” and “working together” and “put your nose in the grindstone until you shit the Pythagorean Theorem out your ass.” In true Iolani fashion, Shailene’s a hundred-pound hapa volleyball player who wears her straightened hair up in a high ponytail, athletic leggings instead of real pants, big-ass hoop earrings, and does her own manicures while she vidchats with Dex. (Or she used to, anyway.)

What Dex means by this is that Hawaii’s public education system is a shithole. Either you go private and shell out enough money to pay a college tuition for your _kindergartener_ , or you eat shit and die. Nobody likes being in a school-to-prison pipeline. Kids can smell the worthlessness of getting an A. Public school is just a lot of prisoners, banging at their jail cell bars, losing hope, getting restless.

Kai comes home from school one day at noon. She’s eating a popcorn bag mixed with furikake and kakimochi and swearing up a storm because she can’t chew anything with two teeth missing.

Dex doesn’t even have the energy to ask. He barely has the energy to be alarmed. He asks her if she wants to go the ER, half-heartedly, even though they couldn’t pay for it anyway. Mom hasn’t really come home in like, a week or something.

“The fuck are they gonna do, shove my teeth back in?” Kai giggles. She keeps chewing through popcorn. “Shit, Dex, your private-school bitch can actually throw one punch. Elbow like knives, brah. Skinny rich bitch. Fuckin’ Japanese," she says, with the pidgin lilt she picked up from the micronesian kids and Kainoa's ukulele-rapping skills. 

Dex pauses. “What? Wait—what?”

“I shoved Shailene’s face through one bathroom mirror,” Kai says.

Airily, she says it, like it ain’t no thing.

Dex feels like he’s gotten punched in the gut.

“Ripped her hoop earring out, too,” says Kai. “They didn’t let me keep it, though. Had a lil’ bit ear lobe still on it, too.”

“Kai,” Dex says.

“Pulled it straight through the puka,” Kai says, checking her reflection in her phone’s front camera. “Suspension for three weeks. Ah, shit,” says Kai, and grins delightedly. She’s got furikake between her teeth and her tongue in the space where her incisor used to be. “I look tough as fuck now, don’t I?”

 

* * *

 

 

Dex drags his ass to school just to check if Shailene’s okay. She comes back to school in a week. She has two big-ass shiny red stitches, one of her temple and one on her chin, and when the stitches come out and she takes the bandages off, she tries to cover them up with concealer. She is, indeed, missing the bottom half of her right earlobe. Dex tries to apologize, and she smiles and nods, but Dex isn’t sure that Shailene really hears him. For the rest of high school, she keeps her head down, doesn’t look at either Kai or Dex, plays a lot of volleyball, and disappears to college. Her parents can afford it.

 

* * *

 

 

Dex gets a job at Longs, after he graduates. He’s not going to college, of course, so he tries to keep that job. Tries not to lie down and wait to die for twenty-one days, anymore. 

But Dex supposes that’s against his nature, probably. Considering how _lazy_  he is.

Kai goes through her own graduation plastered off her ass. The day afterwards, she wonders if she should have taken the free counseling sessions that they’d offered her while she was a student.  _That_ one gets a laugh out of Dex.

 

* * *

 

 

Dex gets fired from Longs. Because he’s lazy, of course.

He goes to Don Quixote instead. There’s a guy in a tent outside the store who sells andagi by the bag for one dollar. His name is Dave The Filipino Andagi Guy: first name Dave, last name The Filipino Andagi Guy. Considering that andagi is literally just warm, deep-fried bread, it’s real fucking good. Eventually, Dave The Filipino Andagi Guy starts giving Dex one of two extra per bag, and then he gives them to Dex for free. Dex tries to keep the Don Quixote job, if only so he can shovel as much andagi down his throat as he can while he shelves kimchi and giant bags of jasmine rice. 

Kai is supposed to get a job at Aulani—y’know, the Disney resort? The one where all the brown people work the concierge desk and dance the hula in little coconut bras for the mainland tourists and rich Japanese folks who came to get their wedding photos taken? The one with the man-made lagoons and the actual, literal _plastic mountain_ , because Disney is just _so committed_ to the “authentic Hawaiian experience.”

Nobody pays money to see people live, as they say. Plastic mountains sell better.

But this is what they’ve got, this is what’s left of Honolulu, and Kai can play the ukulele enough. She can smile and say “Mahalo” like she means it, if she really tries, even though nobody really says Mahalo except in customer service anymore. She’s brown, but not too brown, and would look smart as hell behind the front desk. She’s got an in, because Auntie Verna, who currently works the Japanese-speaking concierge, thinks Kai’s just the cutest little cookie, and also Dex suspects that Auntie Verna used to be Kai’s sugar mama at one point and possibly still is.

The only thing Dex knows is that Kai doesn’t get a job at Aulani, because she never brings home the uniform she's supposed to wear, and that he doesn’t see her enough. Sometimes, he’s not very sure they’re really related, or that they even live in the same house anymore. But right now, Dex is just trying to keep his head above water. He eats free andagi and buys a lot of Oreos and the cheapest snack-cakes Longs has in stock, a little collection of food that he keeps under the bed. It’s okay. It’s okay.

By the time he gets up the energy to call Mom, she’s already been living with some strange new sugar daddy in Nevada for six weeks.

 

* * *

 

 

For five years at Blood Gulch, _that’s_ the life that Grif had been trying to go back to. Man, Grif is so fucking stupid. 

 

* * *

 

 

The day after Dex gets drafted, Dex actually pays for his andagi. Dave The Filipino Andagi Guy tries to tell him not to, but there’s a line, and he’s gotta haul ass and fry more bread, not sit around and talk story. Dex goes home, ready to turns on KHON and eat his andagi, and walks straight into Kai with fifty million solo cups and twenty bottles of Smirnoff vodka.

“Yo, Dex, I’m thinking about opening a club,” says Kai, for the bajillionth time this month. She’s mixing what looks like a giant vat of sangria with even more vodka. “Like, why does Waikiki gotta have all the action, y’know? And all the Waikiki clubs are full of tourists. Injustice! Equal clubbing for everyone, Dex!" 

"I'm leaving," says Dex.

"Yeah? Where?" Kai says, not really listening.

"I don't know. Basic, I guess."

Kai keeps mixing. "Basic what?"

"Uhh... I... don't really know?" Shit, Dex actually doesn't really know what "basic" stands for. "I think it's called basic training?"

"Training for _what_?"

"The fucking military," Dex snaps, at the end of his patience. "I get shipped out in seven days."

Kai stops.

Turns.

The bottle in her hand is still leaking vodka all over the table.

“Oh, gross, Kai, you better clean that up,” Dex says.

"What?" she says.

"Seriously, Kai, it'll get sticky if you just leave it."

"You're  _leaving_?" Kai echoes.

Dex puts his head down. Not his fault, he reminds himself. He was drafted. "I'm gonna go and... pack," Dex lies. “Here. Andagi.”

He throws the andagi bag on the table. It lands in the middle of the vodka puddle. Yikes. Time to get the fuck out of here.

"Wait," says Kai. "Dex, wait—"

 

* * *

 

 

Hawaii is constantly changing. Construction all over the fucking place, despite the state’s apparent inability to fix the god damn roads. All the government money went into making the buildings bigger and shinier and richer and more appealing to tourists, and also into having twenty million cops, which Dex doesn’t actually mind, because he knows that the likelihood is that the cop who pulls him over went to the same public high school as Dex, and he’ll get a free pass and a compliment on his hair. Local kids stick together. Speeding tickets are for haoles.

Dex knows that everything goes. Did you know that the reason why Hawaii hasn’t eroded is because the United States straight up replaced the edges of the island with fucking _metal_? Yeah, bitch, that’s what the future looks like: the US of A couldn’t afford to lose Hawaii’s tourism industry, couldn’t afford to lose the idea of Hawaii as everyone’s dream vacation spot, so they fuckin’ outlined the entire damn island with stainless steel, and then put sand over it.

Yes, really.

Killed basically the entire marine ecosystem, by the way.

The University of Hawaii faculty were _pissed._

The state ships in new sand by the tons to replace the sand that the ocean erodes away.

Dex knows that, if he ever comes back from the army, the odds are that Kahala Mall won’t be there. It’s old, and the theatre barely works anymore, and the Kahala Hotel got edged out by some new Ritz-Carlton twenty miles leeward. Odds are, next time he walks into Ala Moana Mall (not to _buy_ anything, of course, ‘cause Ala Moana is too expensive now), he won’t know his way around because the shops are all changed again. Downtown looks like a fuckin’ space station, now, full of big metal buildings. Pearl Harbor’s crammed full of weird space-travel shit instead of boats.

But he figures the beaches will still be there. They’re gross and filled with gallons of tourist pee, but—hey. They’re not going anywhere.

 

* * *

 

 

The day Dex leaves for Basic, Kai doesn’t see him off. Mom obviously doesn’t, whatwith her nice new life in Nevada.

Dex does, though, receive a phone call, from a very hungover Kai, who (from the sound of it) was medicating her hangover with more alcohol. She cries into the receiver and apologizes for twenty minutes, but when Dex asks her what for, what she’s crying about, Kai slurps down more beer and there's the sound of a man's voice in the background and the line goes dead.

Mom could have called. Kai did. A real fucking mess of a phone call, too, in true Kai fashion.

 

* * *

 

 

There’s no reason to miss Kai. No reason to think about how much healthier she looked when sober in Blood Gulch. Yeah, no reason. Grif always knew Kai wasn’t going to stay.


	42. Pass Point

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grif is currently unamused with his own bullshit.

Grif is currently unamused with his own bullshit, which isn’t so much a new experience so much as it is an experience that, for the last near-decade, has been down-regulated to other people, like Sarge or Simmons. Usually Simmons, though. Aw, geez, that’s embarrassing, now that he thinks about it. Sometimes, Grif really hates how grossly leechy he can be, like some sort of cripple. He doesn’t like how ugly it’s going to be when they all eventually go their separate ways.

But right now Sarge is still keeping his distance and trying to finagle a straight story out of Donut about Tucker, so Sarge isn’t going to be the one who makes Grif do anything. Simmons is being weird and cagey and he’s stopped coming by Grif’s room, which is usually what happens when someone doesn’t give you a response for several days. So it’s up to Grif to get his own ass up, pull up to the pantry, and dig out as many sugary, salty, fatty foods as he can find.

In other words, the Fast-Track Serotonin.

Look—Grif’s not _super_ fat. At least, not in his opinion. He’s overweight, and just overweight enough that he gets shit for it every now and then. People make snide comments about “oh, there he goes to the kitchen again” or “ _another_ bag of donuts?” or “ugh,” although the last one is usually just Simmons, who’s never been polite in his whole life. (Brown-nosing doesn’t count.) What people forget, Grif thinks, is that the more they put him in a box—”fat” or “lazy” or “disrespectful” or “cowardly”—the less of himself he actually has to share with them.

This nonsense about shitting on Grif for eating trash is a weird level of neuroticism that people make fun of for eating more than they personally do, like Grif and his unashamed love for food is some sort of demon they have to exorcise lest he convince them it’s okay to have second servings. It smells like the sort of neuroticism that Grif would expect from Simmons, except everyone does it. How can one fear be shared so world-wide?

Grif’s not exactly an intelligent guy, though, and personally, he likes to keep his trains of thought short and simple, in case they hit the end of the rail and hurtle off into accidental freefall. So he drags all the gross, crumb-filled, oil-stained plates littered around his floor, hauls his dishes over to the sink and dumps them there, runs the water so they can soak a bit, and—eh, someone else will do the rest. Simmons likes cleaning, anyway. Grif’s pretty sure it calms him down. Then Grif starts digging through the pantry.

Again, probably not the most kosher way to go about getting himself up and moving, but Grif’s been keeping a little stash of food under his bed for times like these. If he can’t do anything else, at the very least, he can still eat, and it still tastes good. Things can’t be real bad if chugging a bottle of Pepsi is still delicious, y’know? It’s reassuring. Those kinds of reassurances aren’t going to run away, either, which is, of course, the most important aspect of a reassurance.

—There’s a lot less junk food in the pantry than Grif expected. Which doesn’t make sense, because nobody else in this place is eating entire family-size bags of barbeque chips. Right?

Grif shoves his spoils of war into a plastic bag and opens the fridge. Passes on the beer, because he’s not super excited to open up the binge-drinking can of worms today. (How great is that--reaching the point where he’s too tired to fuck himself over? Hey, man, whatever works.) Snags a two-liter bottle of Donut’s diet sodas from forever ago. Shoves that in the bag too. Turns around.

Simmons is standing in the middle of the kitchen, looking simultaneously disgusted and confused.

Grif doesn’t see why Simmons should look so confused when he’s walked in on Grif stealing food before.

“Not like you guys were gonna eat this stuff, anyway," Grif says, by way of saying hello.

Simmons looks unconvinced. By what, Grif also doesn’t know.

“Welp, good talk. Later,” says Grif, and turns to walk away.

“Are you,” says Simmons.

Grif stops. Simmons stops.

“What?” Grif says.

“Never mind,” Simmons says immediately, already looking pissed, as he always is when he can't figure out what else to do. “Just be glad I’m not snitching to Sarge, fatass.”

If Grif really cared, he'd glare at Simmons with suspicion, but he doesn't really. Maybe Simmons was going to ask about the fake-dating thing. They were supposed to be doing that, right? Both of them fired up to prove Donut wrong? Or at least Grif was. Damn, Grif should get out of here before Simmons asks. “Sure,” says Grif, and slinks off down the hall before Simmons can change his mind. If Simmons wants to fumble around with his dumb temper reflex, Grif will take whatever grace period he can.


	43. Empty Nests

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Better than none!"

Sarge can be relied upon to alert the entirety of Red Team when events get too quiet, serious, tense, or potentially character-develop-y. Like, you wanna know why Red Team is the way it is around emotions? It’s Sarge. Really. For real. Has nothing to do with Grif or Simmons or Lopez or Donut whatsoever. They all just take after Sarge, who had his tear ducts removed and replaced with motor oil—yes, really, he really did, Donut and Grif both saw it with their own two eyes.

The anti-emotion alert sounds something like:

“BUT YOU CAN’T,” Grif hears him yodel from inside Red Base. “WHAT WOULD YOU DO WITHOUT US?”

Whoever replies is too quiet to be heard through half a foot of bulletproof steel and concrete, which is around any normal human volume.

“THE RED ARMY COULD NOT SURVIVE WITHOUT YOU!”

Grif, who is in the deep in the excruciatingly difficult task of staring at the ceiling, begins to wonder if it’s time to get up.

“I’M NOT READY TO BE AN EMPTY-NESTER,” Sarge wails.

Yeah, okay, it’s time to get up. And maybe clean up these five-million snack wrappers, too.

 

* * *

 

 

“Private Grif!” Sarge exclaims, pulling himself up to his full height, which is still about an entire foot smaller than Caboose. “Finally emerged from your slacking and lazy-ing and skipping team meetings, I see!”

“You mean the team meetings where we sit around and complain that none of us has a laser sword?” says Grif.

“Yes! They’re vital to upkeeping morale and determination! Keeping in mind the ultimate goal, which to adopt a new Red to the army who can both punch through steel walls, has a laser sword, and is almost as handsome but not more handsome than myself!”

Grif cracks his spine and turns the shade up on his visor, so he can actually see in the bright sunlight after having been a cave gremlin for so many days. He's too tired for this shit. “I can see how this is incredibly necessary,” says Grif, with zero inflection in his voice, “in order to defeat the dastardly Blue Army, who’s been such a threat to our way of life so for long, lurking around in their base, throwing Sunday movie nights, having emotionally-engaging plots, et cetera, et cetera.”

“Those Blue Teams sound like a real problem for you guys,” says Caboose.

“Blue Team is a problem to itself,” Grif mutters.

“Don’t play coy, Blue!” Sarge cries. “You know the threat you pose to society and the free man!”

“I don’t see why this means I can’t leave Valhalla,” says Caboose.

“Because without us, who’ll shoot bullets at you and blow up your home?” Sarge wails. “Who’ll tie your shoelaces and pack your lunches? How will you _survive_ out there in the cold, cold world without anyone to threaten you with annihilation?!”

“You’re absolutely right,” says Grif. “That’s completely and entirely logical. Good thinking, sir.”

“Don’t do that deadpan ass-kissing, Grif,” Sarge says. “I’m still holding out hope that Simmons will resume his position. And hopefully realize he could have a better taste in men, for chrissake.”

“Well, theoretically,” says Caboose, “if I go find Tucker, then if I got shot and died, then Tucker could give me a piggy-back ride back to Blue Base, and then I’d probably be all right, sooooo…”

Grif squints incredulously at Caboose. Not that Caboose can see his expression through the helmet, but it’s the principle of the thing.

“Why are you looking at me like that,” says Caboose.

“You can’t even see my face,” says Grif.

“Your neck did a sassy chicken stretch,” Caboose replies. “The one I’m not allowed to do anymore because Church can’t do it and he gets jealous.”

Grif would point out that Caboose is free to do as many sassy chicken stretches as he’d like because Church is fucking dead, but, alas, that is exactly the reason why Grif can’t point it out. “And _why_ are you going to go find _Tucker_?” Grif asks instead. “ _Tucker_ , who you hate, of all people?”

Caboose fidgets.

“See?!” Sarge cries. “He won’t tell me! We’re drifting, Grif! We’re falling apart!”

“Dude. Caboose,” says Grif. “C’mon. I know you want your team back, but. Really? _Tucker_?”

Caboose sighs.

“Look, we’ll paint Donut baby-blue and ship him over if you want company,” says Grif. “They’ve even got the same compulsion to make a minimum of four filthy sex jokes per minute.”

“Two-hundred-forty innuendos per hour,” Sarge mutters. “Gotta hand it to ‘em, that’s not bad mileage.”

“That’s now how mileage—wait, did you do that math in your _head_?”

“Tucker might be Tucker, but he’s still Tucker,” says Caboose. “So I’ll go, and get Tucker, and bring Tucker, and then there will be _both_ me and Tucker for you to fight!”

“That’s a two-hundred percent increase in Blues,” Sarge says. “Not bad odds, actually.”

“That’s still just _two Blues_!” Grif protests.

“Better than none! What am I supposed to do if Blue Team is gone from this valley?!” Sarge cries.

“Go find some other baby to beat up,” Grif mutters.

“Church said I’m not allowed to beat up babies, so maybe you shouldn’t, either,” says Caboose. “Tucker will be here soon, and then you can beat him up. I can help!”

If the word “Church” comes out of Caboose’s mouth one more time, Grif’s just going to give this conversation up as a bad job. “That’s assuming you even make it to where Tucker is,” says Grif, “and considering that Donut barely lived through it, I _somehow_ don’t have the greatest faith in this mission succeeding."

“That sucks for the mission,” says Caboose. “What does the mission have to do with me?”

Grif is really, really too tired for this shit. “Caboose, seriously,” he says. “Just stay here. Move in or something. We’ll shuffle the bedrooms around again—you can share with Donut and we’ll kick Lopez out to, I dunno, live in the basement. Forget Tucker. Leave it alone. Make like Red Team and pretend it’s not there until it stops being a problem. Let it die.”

“No,” Caboose snaps, so fast that Grif startles.

“Uh,” says Sarge. “C—”

“I’m tired of sitting on the floor doing nothing and being bad at building a friend!” Caboose interrupts. “It’s boring and stupid and I hate doing nothing and doing nothing makes me hate me! So I’m not doing nothing anymore. Doing anything is better than doing nothing.”

Grif jerks, involuntarily.

“Hm,” says Sarge.

“I don’t see what the problem is,” says Caboose. “You’re not on my team. If you want, you guys can just wait here and do nothing while I go get Tucker. Okay?”

“Hm,” says Sarge, again. Grif says nothing.

Caboose picks up his assault rifle. “Goodbye. Have fun doing nothing in your empty valley with nobody around,” says Caboose, with complete sincerity, and starts walking back towards Blue Base.

“Hmmrrhghghghghhhggggg,” says Sarge.

Together, they stand and watch Caboose trudge up through the river and around the bend.

“So I guess we just do nothing,” says Grif.

“Should be your favorite plan yet, then,” says Sarge, with more than a touch of irritation.

“I’m going back to bed,” says Grif.

“I knew it!” Sarge cries as Grif hikes back to Red Base. “Lazy, good-for-nothing snoozer!”

Yeah, Grif's aware.


	44. Honest Work

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Doing anything is better than doing nothing."

Grif wants to explain himself to Caboose, in a way that he's never really wanted to explain himself to anyone—not his mother, not Kai, not Sarge, not Simmons. Perhaps especially not Simmons, whatwith that bitter, passive-aggressive nagging he does. But Caboose—Grif needs Caboose to understand, in a way that he knows he'd never want to actually do, much less actually put into motion.

Grif wants to explain why he let Caboose down. 

 

* * *

 

 

Grif is dreaming about a cold, clear night, when the sky didn’t snow and the wind didn’t blow, and Grif actually had something worth doing, and consequences. 

Specifically, Grif is dreaming about a night when he rolled his eyes at himself, because he'd never believed that machismo boy-fantasy of joining the military and getting to shoot big guns and feel part of the team and do something heroic and feel special, because he's always known that nobody's special, not really. Except that he's beginning to feel like maybe he missed the point of that myth of the military—maybe the point isn't that you become an individual, but that you become part of something bigger than yourself, and that maybe that great creation myth of the military is not so much myth after all. Grif is dreaming about a night where he knew why he was here, and it was to do good work, protect his team, make a stand at a base protecting a drop zone connecting two supply routes to major cities full of civilians, four-hundred miles away.

Eventually, Grif blinks awake.

“What’s up with you?” Jackson asks, in that weirdly blunt, arched-eyebrow way he tends to ask about other people’s well-being. “Don’t nod off and leave me by myself.”

Grif rubs at his eyes. “Third night shift in a row,” he says.

Grif can’t see Jackson—not really. They’re sitting up in the watchtower bubble, surrounded by the dark; Jackson’s got a pair of night-vision binoculars strapped to his chest, which he picks up only periodically, half-heartedly, when he’s particularly bored. There’s no lights in the bubble, for the same reason you don’t turn your lights on in a car at night. The late-night lights at the gate are so distant. Without the light, without the snow, the glass bubble seems to vanish, and it’s just two people sitting three-hundred feet in the air, like they could step off the tower and disappear.

“Sleep during the day,” says Jackson, unimpressed.

"Don't tell me what to do, rookie."

"This rookie has a better sleep schedule than you because _I_ take naps."

“Don’t have to tell me twice,” Grif mutters.

“Then do it," says Jackson. "Aren’t you always talking about how you can sleep on command?”

“Hell yeah, dude. It’s my super power.”

“Lame,” says Jackson.

“Hey! It’s super useful, and therefore super cool.”

Jackson makes an “ehh” motion with his hand. “Doesn’t seem so useful if you’re falling asleep.”

“Uh, no, dude, mess hall isn’t open at night.”

Jackson snorts.

There’s a silence.

“And there’s no training drills at night,” Grif says.

Jackson makes a disgusted face. “Don’t tell me you’re staying awake to go to _training_. Just skip it.”

“I don’t wanna,” Grif says.

“You have a perfectly legitimate pass because of the night shift. Skip it.”

“I don’t wanna,” Grif says.

Jackson squints. “Are you… by chance… a masochist…?”

Grif starts laughing. “I am _the_ most vanilla person you’ll ever meet, _thank_ you very much!”

“Boring,” Jackson mutters.

“Oh, ew, dude, I didn’t need to know that about you.”

“That reminds me that I have to convince Parker to take a night shift, too, so we can have the same break times,” Jackson says.

“I said I didn’t need to know this!”

Jackson snickers, but lets it drop.

Silence again.

“Dude,” says Grif, eventually.

“Don’t call me dude.”

“I can call you whatever I want, rookie,” Grif says. “You’re the one who got here like, five weeks ago and is already skipping drills.”

Grif can feel Jackson roll his eyes.

“Does it ever fuck you up a little bit,” Grif begins, “that like… if we fuck up defending this base, then that’s… it?”

“That tends to happen when you fuck something up," says Jackson.

“Like,” Grif says, and sits up, and puts his hands out, like he can hold the issue in his hands. “Like, this place, this base, this little bit of the war—that’s in _our_ hands. Nobody else. This is it. Nobody else. There’s _actually_ no one else who’s holding this position. If we fuck up, down it goes, and humanity loses bit of land to the dinos. If we win, we actually do, like, a _tangible contribution_ , that _we_ did. With our own two hands. This bit of land is our, like… responsibility? Like the responsibility is a kid, or something? And now we gotta take care of it? And it… _matters_? Y’know?”

“Did that not occur to you,” Jackson begins, “when you _signed up_?”

Okay, that’s not really what Grif wanted Jackson to ask. He slouches back against the glass. “I didn’t sign up,” Grif says shortly. “Drafted.”

“I thought that was illegal.”

“Shit’s wild during wartime, apparently. Survival of humanity and whatever the fuck.”

Silence.

“It's not good to think too hard about how important this base is or isn’t,” Jackson says.

“Don’t tell me what to do. Like you’re some wise fuck sitting on a mountain.”

Jackson pushes his glasses up on his nose, like he does when he’s thinking about how much wiser and smarter than everyone else he thinks he is but doesn’t want to say it out loud.

“And if I didn’t know we were defending a line of supplies from the drop point,” Grif mutters, “then, like. I’d just go take a nap, or something. What would be the point of being here? I don’t wanna do shit if it’s not worth it. Time is money is happiness, dude. I’m only going to expend energy on what’s worth it."

“How’re you going to defend the supply line if you’re falling asleep?” Jackson retorts.

“How am I going to defend the supply line if I _am_ asleep?” Grif replies. “Just leave that up to you clowns? You’ll get shot and killed without my fat ass in the way.”

Jackson thinks it over. Jackson has one of those body languages where you can physically feel his brain churn through material, like a hand crank, and just as noisy. Grif thinks he does that intentionally, because he likes to show off his brain.

“I guess it does matter,” Jackson says.

“Yeah, that’s what I’ve been _saying_ ,” Grif says.

“And that it _is_ good that it matters,” Jackson says, slowly.

“Yes!” Grif exclaims. “Yeah, dude, that’s what I’m _talking_ about! Like, if it _didn’t_ matter, I’d’ve gotten the fuck out of here by now, y’know?”

Jackson snorts. “Then you really _should_ go take a nap.”

“Nnnnnoooooooo, that’s the opposite of what I’m saying,” Grif says. “I’m saying I’m here because this base is important and we’re doing important stuff. This night shift matters. What if the aliens attack?”

“Oh, what’re the odds of that,” Jackson mutters. “And even if they do, _I’ll_ still be here, and _I’m_ slept through training today, unlike you. I’m perfectly capable of pulling an alarm by myself. It only requires one hand. One _finger_ , even.”

“You don’t know that there won’t be an attack or something, and you’ll be all alone up here,” Grif says. “What if tonight’s the one-in-a-million unlucky night?”

“Then you’ll be better rested to defend yourself and stay alive,” Jackson says.

“But—”

“I’m _pretty_ sure I’ll live if you go take a nap,” Jackson interrupts.

Something in Grif’s gut doesn’t like the way that sentence was phrased, but he can’t put his finger on it.

“Go on,” says Jackson. “There’s a closet on the ground floor that everyone naps in. Take the second left, then—”

“I know where it is, rookie, don’t mansplain my own base to me.”

“Then get going,” says Jackson. “Take care of yourself.”

Jackson isn’t smiling. (Grif isn’t sure if this is faulty memory, or if Jackson really hadn’t been smiling that day, or if he’d really said this at all.)

“If you’ve got something worth doing," Jackson says, probably (?), "then make sure you’re well enough to do it. Got it?”

Grif’s gut doesn’t like the way that sentence was phrased, either.

“Make Parker switch shifts with me,” Grif says. “That way I can go to training, and you can hang out with Parker all night.”

Jackson’s mouth quirks up. “Oh, _that’s_ an idea,” he says, a little too slyly with a little too much eyebrow-waggling.

“I said _hang out_ , not have sex all over the watch-tower!”

“You won’t be in the watch-tower with us to care about it,” Jackson says smugly. “Go take a nap, over-achiever.”

“This is so gross,” Grif complains, and opens the hatch at the bottom of the bubble, shimmies into through the trapdoor, begins crawling back down the ladder. He can hear Jackson snickering. “It’s not funny! It’s _really_ gross, and I hope you know that! You weirdo exhibitionist! The watch-tower is literally a giant window! Everyone will be able to see your naked dick!”

The last thing Grif sees is Jackson beginning to laugh, and then the hatch cl—

 

* * *

 

 

Grif wakes up.

It’s dark.

He’s in Valhalla.

All the words dissolve back into thought, and then from thought back into memory, and then from memory back into person. Grif only rolls over and tries to go back to sleep, and nearly succeeds. Grif will not explain any of this to anyone—not to Caboose, not in the morning, not ever. 

But that's fine. These sorts of words come out in the end, one way or another.


	45. Walking Garbage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “And Command will hold a parade in our honor before Caboose goes off to college and forgets to call and forgets to send a holiday Hallmark card and before you know it, it’s been forty years and you don’t recognize his face when he’s sticking you in a retirement home…”

Grif doesn’t wake up ready to talk to Caboose.

He _does_ wake up keenly aware that if Caboose goes off by himself, Caboose is going to die.

Now, Grif might be a useless, good-for-nothing, walking and talking waste of offensive garbage who doesn’t know what he wants or why he’s here or what he gives a shit about—at best, he’s a useless waste of garbage whose only aspiration is to sleep for longer than eighteen hours in one go—but he can recognize that everyone in the universe agrees that Caboose should _not_ die. And more specifically, Caboose shouldn’t go off and die walking to the desert to find a horny alien fucker, which is what Caboose is _going_ to do if nobody either stops him or goes with him.

And it’s like. Holy fucking shit, man. Caboose is going to _die_.

 

* * *

 

 

“No, for _real_ ,” Grif says. “You’d think that we should, you know— _do_ something about that?”

Sarge doesn’t look _enthused_ by the idea—more like years and years of anti-Blue propaganda is warring with the fact that Caboose is Caboose. He angrily slurps tea and glares at his own bagel and and swipes at his tablet to flip the e-reader page, but Grif is fairly sure he didn’t read a single word.

“When was the last time you took a shower,” is the first thing Sarge says.

Oh. Maybe that’s what Sarge looks so unenthused about.

“Today,” Grif lies. “I’m just naturally this repellent. Seriously, Sarge, at this rate, Caboose is going to go from being the only Blue to the last Blue.”

“And then Red Team will have prevailed over the evil Blues,” Sarge grumbles. “And Command will hold a parade in our honor before Caboose goes off to college and forgets to call and forgets to send a holiday Hallmark card and before you know it, it’s been forty years and you don’t recognize his face when he’s sticking you in a retirement home…"

“Nobody will be going off to college and forgetting to call because Caboose will be dead,” says Grif. “Am I speaking English to you? _Dead_ , Sarge. D-E-A-D.”

“I know what ‘dead’ is,” Sarge says, testily.

Grif holds out his hands. Waits for Sarge to say anything.

“He’s still a Blue,” Sarge grumbles.

Grif throws up his hands.

“Okay. Okay, _fine_ ,” says Grif. “You know that if there’s no Blues in Valhalla, there’s nobody for the Reds to fight, right?”

“Hhhmrrrmrmrmrrmmmrrrmm,” says Sarge.

“You’re really going to let our only enemy escape and get himself killed without a proper, uh, glorious death by Red Team?” says Grif. “Especially when he’s on a mission to go and increase the number of Blues in Valhalla by two-hundred percent?"

“That’s still only two Blues,” says Sarge.

“The two-hundred-percent factoid is _your_ garbage logic, Sarge. I’m quoting something _you_ said.”

“Hhrmmmrmrmghghghfghfhfhfhghjfkjfhg,” says Sarge. “And we just leave our base in Valhalla undefended?”

“Who’s going to take our stuff? Nobody else is here!”

“Ah, yes,” says Sarge, “I’m sure that two fully-equipped and fully-stocked military bases that provide near-indestructible protection against the weather and elements in a breezy, scenic woodland plain with acres and acres of farmable land won’t be attractive to _anyone_ walking by—”

Grif sighs.

“—not to mention the small armada of secret high-tech jeeps I’ve been creating off military records, or the spare robot parts we’ve left around, or the UNSC power armor pieces we’ve got by the crateful, or the entire basement capable of projecting full holographic images—“

“Okay!” says Grif. “We’ve got five people on Red Team and only one person has to go with Caboose! It’s not the end of the world! You’re not going to lose your house, geez!”

Sarge finally puts his tablet down. “Have you cleared this with someone who actually has a brain?”

“Yeah, myself.”

“Not you! You don’t qualify.”

“Well, I don’t speak Spanish and there’s no other options,” says Grif.

“For god’s sake, let me get breakfast in me before you tempt me to shoot you,” Sarge replies. “Go find out what Donut and Simmons think.”

 

* * *

 

 

“I _said_ I’m not racist!” says Simmons’s voice, audibly angry. “There’s nothing wrong with you translating for him!”

“Mmmmmmmyeah, I _know_ ,” Donut’s voice replies, “but it probably _should_ be racist to be asked to participate in verbally beating up our Latino robot, so…”

Grif peeks around the back of Red Base. Simmons, Donut, and Lopez are standing in a loose triangle, obscured from general view by some of the larger crates, looking a bit like they’re secretly swapping drugs. Or like Simmons is about to shove Donut in a locker.

“I’m not asking you to beat him up! It’s just translating! And you can’t declare that it _should_ be racist just because it makes you uncomfortable!” Simmons protests.

“Well!” Donut says. “ _You_ can’t declare that it _isn’t_ racist just because it makes you uncomfortable!”

“Deje de usar el lenguaje objetivo para hablar sobre la experiencia subjetiva _(Stop using objective language to talk about subjective experience)_ ,” Lopez says. “Específicamente, deja de usarlo para hablar sobre _mí_ _(Specifically, stop using it to talk about_ me _)_.”

“This has nothing to do with his race!” Simmons cries. “He doesn’t even have a race! He’s a robot! He just happens to speak Spanish!” 

“Being color-blind is a white-man myth, Simmons!”

Simmons’s robot hand clenches. Grif has the sudden, abrupt conviction that Donut’s about to get punched, and that between Donut’s square jaw and Simmons’s hand, Donut’s face is probably going to win. It’s very square.

“I just! Want to know! About what Lopez did!” Simmons hisses. “Did he turn his back on the body at all? What’d he do with it? Did he just leave the body there in the canyon? Lying in the sun? He didn’t even _bury_ it? Even the Blues buried Church! Lopez didn’t think that was fucked up or anything to just kill her and lea—”

 

* * *

 

 

“Simmons agreed with me,” Grif says.

“Of course he did,” Sarge said, rolling his eyes. “You couples, and your incessant need to like each other! Threatening the proper God-given chain of command! Never thought Simmons would wind up a spineless househusband, but life moves in mysterious ways…”

“Please don’t ever call either one of us a househusband.”

Sarge snickers. “Aw, does Private Dexter Grif have commitment issues?”

“ANYWAY,” says Grif, who did not enact a whole elaborate plan concerning fake dating to get ribbed by Sarge over a relationship he’s not actually having. “So that’s settled, right? We don’t even have to decide who’s going with Caboose, since it’s my idea, so I’ll, like, feed and water and walk him every day, I guess.”

“Not settled,” says Sarge. “We’ll have to have a team meeting about it.”

Grif groans. Loudly, and for as long as he can.

“Oh, you big baby,” says Sarge. “Man up! They’re only eight hours long, you coward!”

Something inside Grif begins shrieking. “Jesus, Sarge, we don’t need a team meeting to talk about Caboose for eight hours! By the time the meeting is over, Caboose will be gone!”

“We’ll invite Caboose,” says Sarge.

“Psh, yeah, like he’d come.”

“We’ll have cookies,” says Sarge.

Grif stops. “Is this… _real_ cookies, or just cookies we’re telling Caboose we have to make him come,” says Grif.

“The second one, of course! We’d never show any real hospitality to a Blue!”

“We never get anything nice on this fucking team,” Grif whispers.

“Excuse you! You’ve got me! I’m _very_ nice. Why, once I was voted for Hottes—”

“I’M NOT LISTENING and this conversation is over,” says Grif, grumpily. Maybe he can go back to sleep now. Oh, ugh, if they’re gonna have a team meeting and Simmons will be there, maybe Grif actually has to shower. Doesn’t sound like a _bad_ idea if there’s hot water left, actually.

Sarge is squinting at Grif. “But volunteering? Really, Private Grif?” he says.

“Oh my god, I've basically volunteered to take Caboose for a walk in the park, not a minefield. I practically requested a vacation from this stupid team."

“Are you sure? You’re not feeling faint? Coming down with a case of Competence? I’ll have to kick you off Red Team if you are,” says Sarge. “Maybe you got body-snatched by a pod-person? What’s wrong with you really?”

“I’m only doing it out of self-preservation," Grif says.

"Oddest case of self-preservation I ever saw," says Sarge suspiciously.

"Nothing's wrong with me," Grif snaps, and sulks off to use up all the base’s hot shower water.


	46. Lunar Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Why the hell would I need to go to the moon?”

“Oh! That’s very nice of you!” says Caboose. “It'll be so much fun, just you and me, walking to the desert! But are you _sure_ you want to come with me?”

“Unfortunately,” says Grif.

At the current moment, Grif is attempting to bake Caboose some hot chocolate—yes, _bake_ the hot chocolate. See, the kitchen is such a disaster zone that Grif’s almost tempted to clean it, and when he, Grif, Dexter Grif, is being tempted to _clean_ , that’s how how you know this kitchen is _bad_. Half the kitchen rags are lying on the floor to cover various spills, like Caboose could literally sweep them under the rug, and just about every bowl, plate, utensil, and cooking appliance is covered in either cheese powder or grease. The sole exception is the microwave, which has a handwritten sign on it that reads _do NOT touch or u DIE!!!!!!!_ , for some reason; this means that the (apparently lethal) microwave is spotless, but the microwave is also blockaded off by five piles of dirty dishes, and the sink is already full of dirty dishes so it’s not like Grif can just move the piles there, and therefore the microwave might be clean but it’s still unusable. And then the electric stove nearly exploded when Grif tried to turn it on, so there might be some sort of grease spill on the inside of the electric interface? Either that, or Caboose tried to take it apart and didn’t put it back together entirely right.

Anyway: that’s why Grif is heating up milk for Caboose’s hot chocolate in a brownie pan in the oven.

“Won’t Simon be sad if you leave without him, though?” says Caboose.

 _That’s_ not really the objection that Grif was expecting Caboose to have. “He’s a big boy, he’ll live,” Grif mutters.

“Simon _is_ pretty tall,” Caboose agrees.

“Yeah, okay, whatever—seriously, though, we need at least enough room on the table to put the cups down.”

Caboose mumbles and grumbles, but he does start clearing his greasy, motor-oil-y metal mechanic parts off the kitchen table. At least Sarge never brings his workshop into the kitchen. Like, Grif _really_ doesn’t want to be that asshole who tells other people how to live their lives, but Grif is discovering that when you’ve actually got shit to do, you gotta at least have enough order to have workable space, and sometimes that means kicking Caboose’s ass to make him clean his kitchen table.

“Don’t you have to go to your moon first?” Caboose asks.

“What? Why the hell would I need to go to the moon?”

“Because you take your best friend to the moon?” Caboose says, like this is obvious.

“Sure, if I wanted my best friend to get jettisoned off into space, never to be seen again.”

“Don’t be silly,” says Caboose. “Everyone knows you don’t jettison off the moon.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You just fall off.”

“Uhhhh-huh.”

“That’s why there’s no dogs on the moon. They’ll run right off the edge, and they’re too small to catch.”

“Your brain is a work of art,” says Grif.

“So if your best friend falls off the moon when you take them there,” Caboose says, “you have to be very sure to catch them. You have to catch them! Or else they’ll just fly away and you’ll never see them again, and they’ll probably just float around in space being lonely and sorry.”

“I’m not taking any friends to the moon, and I’m especially not taking Simmons to the moon,” Grif says.

“Yes, you are?” says Caboose. “When a man and a man love each other very much, the moon turns into honey, and then they go to the honey-moon.”

Grif nearly dies. There’s no real physiological cause for it; he doesn’t choke on air or have a minor heart attack. He just feels a gentle, insistent tug of his spirit attempting to enter the afterlife on the spot at the sheer mention of Caboose even _thinking_ that they’re fucking _married_.

“Simmons and I are not going on our honeymoon,” says Grif.

“Why not? Do you not like moons?”

“Because we’re not _married_ ,” Grif says. “Why is it that every time, you assholes _assume_ that our relationship is one step higher than it really is? We tell you we’re acquaintances, you assume we’re friends. We tell you we’re friends, you assume we’re dating. We tell you we’re dating, you assume we’re married!”

“Well, people are always saying things but meaning something else,” says Caboose, very slowly, like Grif is an idiot.

“No! Sometimes we say _exactly_ what we mean!”

Caboose stares at Grif.

“Okay, that’s not true,” Grif mumbles.

“You said a thing but meant something else,” Caboose agrees.

“Tell you what,” says Grif. “If Simmons and I wind up with a moon made of honey, _you_ can go there with _your_ best friend in our place.”

“But there’s no dogs allowed on the moon,” Caboose says.

“You don’t even have a dog, Caboose. Bring a different best friend—”

—and there’s half a second where Grif is going to let that sentence stay right where it is, but he knows, on the spot, that the “different best friend” is going to be Church, except that Church is in this weird Schrodinger state of being both dead and alive to Caboose, and Grif is _not_ going to let that can of worms open up:

“—Hell, take Sarge with you,” Grif goes on. “You can have a camping trip, and then maybe Sarge will fall off the moon instead.”

“But I wanted a dog when I lived on the moon,” Caboose says sadly.

“Oh, so _that’s_ why you’re going to find Tucker,” Grif says. “Hairy, noisy, and humps everything in sight, huh?”

“Tucker’s not a dog,” Caboose says. “You’re thinking of Junior.”

Grif is so, so sincerely sorry that Tucker himself wasn’t present for that burn. “You know what? You’re _absolutely_ right,” says Grif. “You’re probably going to find Tucker in the desert, and Junior’s going to bite your hand off in the first five seconds, because he’s a hairy, noisy, smelly dog.”

Caboose’s expression turns genuinely distressed. “Oh no! That would be bad! Then I wouldn’t have a hand to catch him if he flew off the moon!”

“Oh, Jesus,” Grif mutters.

“And Tucker doesn’t know Junior is a dog! So he might take him to the moon! And then Junior will run right off and never be seen again!”

“Never mind,” Grif says loudly. “ _Nobody’s_ going to the moon, Caboose. Seriously, don’t worry about it. Things will be fine.”

“That’s true,” says Caboose.

Grif hesitates. Then the oven dings, and it’s time to take the brownie pan with the probably-burnt milk out.

“Hey, Grif?” says Caboose.

Grif busies himself with the oven knobs and cups. “What?” he says, as if he’s not really listening.

“We should go back to Blood Gulch,” says Caboose.

Caboose doesn’t quite get a look at Grif’s expression, which is good, because Grif’s very sure that his expression is nothing short of nauseous. “Do I even _want_ to know why you’d ever want to go back to that hellsite,” Grif says.

“At Blood Gulch, things always get better,” says Caboose. “And things always get better out here, too, of course. But it was easier to tell things were getting better when we were at Blood Gulch. Sometimes it doesn’t feel like things are getting better even if I'm supposed to know they are.”

Grif is about three seconds from spilling hot, semi-burnt milk all over the precariously-balanced cups, but he is, perhaps, feigning more interest in making hot chocolate than he actually has. “I’m pretty sure everything was worse at Blood Gulch,” says Grif, with faux nonchalance. “Nothing to do, nobody to talk to, no real point, and no way out.”

“But things got better,” Caboose insists.

“And you said things get better out here, too,” said Grif. He dumps chocolate powder into the cups and shoves a spoon in both. “Things getting better doesn’t count if it’s in a useless, forgotten shithole like Blood Gulch.”

Caboose is frowning, now, because Caboose is a gigantic child who doesn’t like it when people disagree with him. Grif hands him the hot chocolate, and his expression doesn't change. Everyone in this damn valley is needy and high maintenance.

“Okay, fine. Let’s go get Tucker, first, then,” says Grif, hoping that Caboose will forget it. “Then we’ll talk about Blood Gulch.”

Of course Caboose forgets instantaneously; the man has the working memory of a broken pinwheel. “Oh, yes! You and me, going to get Tucker! This will be so much fun!” Caboose chirps. “We can play road trip games, and sing songs, and make a campfire!”

“And you can avoid dying and get your hand bitten off by a dog,” says Grif. “Whoo-hoo. Drink your hot chocolate.”

“Thanks for coming!”

“Don’t mention it,” says Grif.

“Don’t let Simon get lonely,” says Caboose.

“I won’t,” says Grif.

“Okay!” says Caboose, beaming. “Oh man, Gruff, things are going to be great! Things are going to be so much better from now on!”

“They sure are,” says Grif.

"Camp songs!"

"No camp songs."

"Roasting marshmallows!"

"That we can do."

"Remember to send Simon letters!"

" _Okay_ ," says Grif, and rolls his eyes, and stirs his chocolate.

Satisfied, Caboose takes a sip of his hot chocolate, immediately burns his tongue, drops the chocolate all over the table, and then tries to tell Grif that Tucker did it.


	47. Raising Children

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It takes a village to raise a child.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes that is a quote from MLK jr, btw, because my sense of humor is a garbage bin

With both the conversation with Sarge and the conversation with Caboose under his belt, hesitantly, Grif feels pretty good about pitching this plan to the rest of Red Team, as they all pile into the Red Base kitchen for the team meeting. This is how he should have known, ages in advance, that nothing would go right.

It starts when he finishes:

“So that’s the plan,” says Grif, with as much of an air of “I don’t really give a fuck” despite him detailing an upcoming plan to babysit Caboose for a five hundred mile road-trip. “Theoretically we can go at any time. I’d ask if you have any questions, but I don’t really care.”

“¿Qué tan rápido puedes irte ( _How fast can you be gone_ )?” asks Lopez.

“How could you _do_ this, Grif?!” Donut cries.

“¿Cuánto tiempo puede estar fuera ( _How long can you be gone_ )?” Lopez asks.

“How could you _betray_ Simmons like this?!” Donut wails.

“Agreed! This plan is awful!” says Sarge.

“Solo olvídate de volver ( _Just forget to come back_ ),” Lopez says. “Por favor ( _Please_ ).”

“I said I _don’t care_ , and also I didn’t ask for your opinion,” Grif says. “And Sarge, you thought this plan was the bee’s knees like, six hours ago!”

“I’ve acquired new and valuable info about this plan,” says Sarge.

“New and valuable—what? What could you possibly have learned?”

“First off, that everything you do is reprehensible and destined for failure,” Sarge says.

“That’s not new info,” Grif says.

“The new info is that you can’t do this, _obviously_ !” Donut insists. “Everyone _knows_ that this is a death sentence for a relationship!”

Grif nearly does a double take. Instinctively, he glances at Simmons, who isn’t looking at him and looks uselessly confused as usual, anyway. Grif asks, “Uh, what’re you talking about? What’s a death sentence? For what?”

“Long distance relationship, silly!” says Donut. “For you and Simmons! You can't go to save Caboose because then you'd be leaving Simmons behind!”

Grif freezes. Lopez's head, slowly, swivels to face Grif. His unrepentant, shit-eating grin needs no translation.

"¿Cómo te gusta tu relación falsa ahora ( _How do you like your fake relationship now_ )?" Lopez asks with glee.

“Wait,” says Grif. “The dating thing isn't—”

“If the sentence about to come out of your mouth is ‘the dating thing isn't important’,” Sarge warns, “I _absolutely_ will shoot you, right now, for both insubordination and general despicable disregard for Simmons’s delicate feelings.”

“I don’t have _feelings_!” Simmons cries, like Sarge has accused him of having gonorrhea.

“Oh, please, Simmons, it’s too late for you,” says Sarge.

“How is this insubordination?!” Grif protests.

“Don’t worry, Sarge,” says Donut. “Why, just last week, Grif was so _forceful_ about how his relationship with Simmons was definitely more than just physical!”

“Can we stop talking about me like I'm not here,” says Simmons.

"Now _hold_ on a moment—” Grif says.

“Forceful, was he?” says Sarge. His eyes have a glint in them that Grif only barely registers as unusual, suspicious, and probably alarming, before he’s immediately distracted by Sarge continuing: “Well, then, if Grif said so, then I expect him to keep his word! Despite the fact that he’s literally never done so before, and that his word is worth less than a four-day-old rat carcass rotting on the pavement, and that this involves expecting anything from a man fundamentally incapable of meeting expectations—”

“Why do I bother with you clowns,” Grif says.

“—nevertheless! I hope that Simmons’s influence might have rubbed off on you! So I expect you to keep your filthy, useless word nonetheless!”

“ _What_ word?!” Grif cries. “My only word so far has been committing to a roadtrip with Caboose!”

“False,” says Donut. “You’re committed to Simmons, right?”

“Let’s not, uh, throw around words like ‘committed’,” Simmons begins.

“No, you have to stand up for yourself!” Donut insists. “Demand more from life! Tell Grif to give you what you need! Let him know how to please you!”

“PLEASE STOP WORDING THINGS THAT WAY,” says Simmons.

“What the boy is trying to say—and I can’t believe I’m saying this, but he’s saying the right thing,” says Sarge, “is that helping that filthy Blue is all well and sound, but you can’t just run off like some flighty lady and leave your better half behind!”

Grif very nearly puts his entire face in his hands. He should have known—no, scratch that, he _did_ know. He’s _known_ that this stupid fake-dating con would come back to bite him, somehow, in some way, because he’s Dexter Grif and the whole universe conspires to give a noticeable absence of fucks about him and everything he touches. There really is a great plan and order to the cosmos, and the proof of it is that the cosmos hate him, specifically. Grif’s only consolation is that Simmons looks even more mortified than Grif feels, which isn’t even that great of a consolation, because Simmons will make that exact same face over Grif’s dirty socks.

“El arco del universo moral es largo ( _The arc of the moral universe is long_ ),” Lopez whispers, “pero se inclina hacia la justicia ( _but it bends towards justice_ ).”

“Look,” says Grif, because he can rapidly feel this nonsense turning into A Thing and he needs to make it stop before it does, “Simmons and I, uh, appreciate your concern for us? As intrusive and not-your-business and rude as it might—okay, actually, what I _mean_ to say is you guys can fuck right off with your nosiness, thanks, Simmons and I are perfectly able to make our own decisions—”

“That might be the biggest crock of lies that’s ever come out of your mouth, Private Grif,” says Sarge. “And that is a _high_ bar.”

“Is it too much to ask to be left alone to be emotionally incompetent in peace?!” Grif snaps back.

Donut, for his part, rounds on Simmons: “Aren’t you pissed? He’s trying to run off with Caboose!” Donut demands. “Are you going to let him speak for you like that?”

“Better him than you,” Simmons retorts waspishly.

“Él te tiene allí ( _He's got you there_ ),” Lopez says. Donut slides Lopez a surprisingly venomous glare, which Lopez returns with relish.

“But _long-distance_ , Simmons!” Donut cries. “It’ll ruin _everything_! Don’t you care?!”

“Aren’t _you_ the one who thought I was just using Simmons for his hot bod?” Grif asks.

Sarge’s laser-vision swings around towards Grif as his hand grabs his shotgun.

“Which I’m NOT,” Grif clarifies quickly.

“My hot WHAT,” Simmons says.

Grif points at Donut. “His words, not mine!”

“I don’t recall you disagreeing,” Donut chirps.

“I. That’s. Well,” says Grif, and makes the mistake of looking at Simmons right at that moment to see Simmons staring at him with a weird look on his face. Oh, christ, change the subject, for the love of god. “Look, as long as _someone_ goes with Caboose and prevents him from dying, it doesn’t have to be me. It could be any of us. I dunno, if you _really_ want me and Simmons to stick together, then maybe Simmons could come with us?”

“Ooooh,” says Donut. “Couples roaaaaaad-trip!”

“Absolutely not,” says Sarge. “You think that I’m letting this adventure pass me by? _I’m_ going with Caboose."

"Sarge, you're disturbing the couples road-trip--"

"Romance always comes second to guts and glory and that’s final! Adventure awaits!" Sarge cries. "The rest of you can fight for the remaining seat!”

“Then—” Grif screws up his face. “Then Caboose, you, me,  _and_ Simmons…?”

“Only three people on a Warthog,” Sarge says.

"We've sat multiple people per seat before!"

“Grif, use your brain for once. If you think I’m leaving my entire base unattended with just Donut and Lopez, you’ve got another think coming," says Sarge. "No offense to you, Lopez.”

“Sin ofender ( _No offense taken_ ),” Lopez says. “Puedo ser competente, pero sé que no podría reinar en la gran capacidad de Donut para la destrucción sola ( _I may be competent, but I know I could not reign in Donut’s sheer capacity for destruction alone_ ).”

Grif is trying to compute all the permutations of Red Team, plus Caboose, in his head. “Okay, then— _you_ go alone with Caboose, and leave me and Simmons here—”

“And let Caboose sit in the shotgun seat to navigate?” Sarge asks. “So he can steer us straight in the opposite direction of where we’re supposed to go? Are you trying to kill me, Private?”

“Then take Donut and let _him_ navigate!”

“That still sounds like you’re trying to kill me,” says Sarge.

“Hey!” says Donut.

Grif groans. “Then take Simmons as a navigator!”

“And then you two will be separated, and we’ll be back where we started,” Sarge says.

Grif stares at Sarge, who stares back, delightedly unimpressed. Grif cannot _believe_ that this is happening to him. He got off his ass, pitched all this shit to Sarge, got Caboose in on it—organized, like, three-hundred-percent more people on this mission than he’s used to, and now he can’t get this thing off the ground because _logistics_? Because Sarge refuses to move his shouty red ass from the shotgun seat and they can’t figure out any other configuration that accommodates them all? What the fuck, universe? What the actual fuck?

“Guys, _seriously_ ,” Grif says, at loss of anything else to appeal to. “Caboose will _die_ if we don’t get our shit together and go with him.”

“As should be his grisly Blue fate!” Sarge says cheerfully. “It’s destiny!”

“Well, gee, Sarge, I guess that's true!" says Donut.

“Simplemente disfruto verte luchar ( _I just enjoy seeing you struggle_ ),” Lopez says. "Te mereces todo lo que obtienes y más, mentiroso con citas falsas ( _You deserve everything you get and more, you fake-dating liar_ )."

“Unfortunately, Grif,” says Sarge, “despite your natural compulsion to ruin everything you come into contact with, the rest of us are _unfortunately_ and _tragically_ well-informed to the fact that you two are in a caring, committed relationship, and you both would never risk a long-distance relationship if you were in your right minds. We're only keeping you up to scratch! So in the end, this is is the natural course and order of things. A happy ending all around!”

“And Caboose will walk to his certain death and probably explode into a million jillion zillion pieces!” Donut says cheerfully.

“Truly a happy Red Army ending!” Sarge cheers.

Grif drags a hand down his face and avoids Simmons's eyes.


	48. Asymptote Tango

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is, apparently, too much to ask that he have the opportunity to sit here in the communal kitchen and whine and mope and complain and marinate in his own failures and wreckage as a human being for another week.

Eventually, Donut and Sarge leave, probably off to tell Caboose about his impending death, which Caboose will probably take entirely in stride, as he does with everything. Grif is left to mope, and then steal one of Sarge's precious, coveted strawberry yoo-hoos in retalation, and then mope over the yoo-hoo.

He doesn't know what he expected, to be entirely honest. That things might, actually, for once, possibly, _work out_? He shouldn't have. Things turning out well is a joke. Especially, he thinks, with his track record.

Or maybe this is what he deserves for having barely talked to Caboose in three months. You stop talking to someone, you stop being good for that person's wellbeing, and you cease to have a say in how their life turns out. (Isn't that what he used to say to himself when Mom disappeared?)

He wonders if Church was buried. They'd dropped the body during the getaway from Freelancer, but the body was just a hunk of robot bits. (Similar or dissimilar to the way that a person is a hunk of meat?) They should have buried the bit of Church that was _actually_ Church--but what's there to bury when an AI gets ripped into code?

He wonders if anyone at Rat's Nest buried any of the soldiers from that one battle he's interrupted. He hadn't ordered anyone to do it. If a Red Team soldier receives no orders, can they think for themselves?

He knows nobody from his last outpost was buried. The ice was too hard to dig. The very thought of burning their bodies, of having to smell bitter cooked meat mixed with the sweetness of the spinal fluid, had turned his stomach. He'd shoved them in the ice to keep them from rotting and forgotten to tell his rescuers to dig them back out.

He'd rather Kai rot in the sun than be frozen in the ice. But he doesn't want to make that call. He doesn't even want to have an opinion on it. He doesn't even want to know. It's a scam, a ploy to catch you with your underbelly soft and exposed. Better to quit while you're ahead--

"I'm pretty sure we have real beer somewhere," says Simmons, like the insensitive douchefuck that he is.

Grif, very nearly, sighs.

It is, apparently, too much to ask that he have the opportunity to sit here in the communal kitchen and whine and mope and complain and marinate in his own failures and wreckage as a human being for another week. It's not a _tall_ order, he doesn't think. He really just needs a quiet space, nothing to do, nobody around, and he's set to go. That's the _opposite_ of high maintenance.

But starting interpersonal shit with Simmons? With anyone? Getting snappy or angry or nasty? That only leads to more shit. It's not that Grif doesn't have a backbone, okay; it's that Grif knows when he's lost a battle before he starts. It just so happens that all the battles Grif has lost before he's started is, uh, all of his battles.

He takes a swig of yoo-hoo like a can of beer, and gives Simmons his best dead-eyed stare. It's not hard. "Strawberry yoo-hoos are the peak of manliness, Simmons," says Grif. "Pretty sure it's better than the piss-water we've got in the basement, at any rate."

"They're still Sarge's."

"Ask me if I give a fuck," Grif mutters.

Grif immediately knows that this conversation is going to suck ass, because Simmons does not ask Grif if he gives a fuck. Instead, he wanders into the kitchen, playing at cool he doesn't have, skirting the table and Grif like they're going to bite.

There's a sudden memory in Grif's head: Grif sitting in a Warthog, a million years ago at Rat's Nest, fiddling with the radio and halfway through a cigarette. He was happier with the cigarette than he was the radio, because cigarettes and cigarette brands are the same all over: in Honolulu, Texas, Seattle, distant colonies in the middle of the arctic wasteland, Blood Gulch, Rat's Nest--later, eventually, Valhalla. Radio stations change. He should be able to pick up Tucker trying to broadcast a "ladies wanted" advert around now, or listen to Church shriek at Caboose about _stop fucking touching the fucking microwave I swear to god I really am going to shoot you this time, fuck!_ Sometimes stations in Honolulu, the ones that were interested in "archiving radio history," would play old _Perry and Price_ broadcasts, and Grif always listened, because it was nice to listen to people talk about news from hundreds of years ago. A whole reel of disasters from a time and place when he knows, with the benefit of time, that everything, eventually, turned out okay.

But the Rat's Nest radio didn't play much of anything--no signal down in the tunnels, except each other, and _these_ Blues can actually do their job half a damn, and they bother to encrypt their radio stations more than the bare minimum required for Sarge to stop feeling bad about joining the group radio chat. So it was just Grif, tuning into different types of static, giving and receiving no message and no broadcast, chewing on why he can't send a letter to Kai in Blood Gulch because Blood Gulch isn't on the _map_.

And then Simmons had come into the carpool--just like he's coming into the kitchen now--and the rude, snooty dick swiped the cig right out his hand and stepped on it. Like he had any right to be policing what Grif did or didn't do with his body. The right to destroy yourself is the first and only inalienable right a human has in this world. _Y'know how much those cost around here?_ Grif had asked. _How much does it cost to replace your lungs again?_ Simmons had retorted.

Grif hadn't said anything. Hadn't really been in the mood to banter; he'd been in the mood to sit there in the garage and whine and mope and complain and marinate in his own failures and wreckage as a human being for another week.

And Simmons, then, too, and skirted around the Warthog and Grif like they'd been about to bite, even when Grif told him what was on his mind, in the most direct way he knew how, even when Grif told him _And could you sit down? You're making me nervous_. Simmons did not sit down. He'd hovered and fretted and did his awkward shuffle with the hunched shoulders.

And there was that other time, too, back at Blood Gulch, when Grif kept staring at Kai like she was either a miracle or a monstrous, promiscuous bogeyman who'd crawled out from under his bed, and he was continually just as surprised as anyone else when wild shit like _seven abortions_ came out of her mouth--back then, too, Simmons did a remarkable impression of a nervous, noisy asymptote: always approaching asking what the deal is, what the actual fuck is going on with this nonsense about his mom working at a circus when everyone knows there's no circus in Hawaii, but never actually able to get the words out.

A million other times, when he thinks about it. A glancing meeting in the nighttime kitchen: _Are you okay?_ Sitting under Rat's Nest's halogen lights: _Do I need to worry?_ Two-in-the-morning bathroom tiles: _You're bleeding all over the floor!_ In the rare patches of Blood Gulch's shade: _Do you want to talk about it?_

The first thing Grif had ever been able to admit he'd liked about hanging out with Simmons was that with him, Grif and Simmons only asked _Do you want to talk about it_ when they're very, very sure that the answer is _No_.

And here and now, with Grif staring Simmons over the top of this fucking strawberry yoo-hoo, they both know that if Simmons asked...

Simmons turns away and towards the kitchen sink full of plates. "Do we make the chore wheel for nothing?" he mumbles. "I'm not supposed to be on dish duty, and yet, every time I come in here, _mysteriously_ none of the dishes have been done...!"

(Isn't it better for everyone to leave the answer in Schrodinger's box?)

"What a tragedy," says Grif. "You, mysteriously being left with the chore you would probably do for a hobby if you could."

"Hilarious," says Simmons, flatly, but nothing else, just turns to the sink and rolls up his sleeps and runs the water. No banter, no uppity comment, no--what was it that Donut called it? No Bert-and-Ernie nonsense.

He scrubs at a dish with herky-jerky movements, like a puppet with piano wires for strings. Tense like a hunted animal. Walking on eggshells, is the usual phrase, but Grif thinks more of what his mother had said: _Never turn your back on the ocean. Never rescue a drowning man._

The way a bright young woman with a scholarship for DII volleyball shouldn't think twice about leaving a garbage island behind.

Nervous, noisy asymptotes continually approaches a given curve, but never meets it at a terminal distance. Nervous, noisy asymptotes bring their piano-wire tension into the Rat's Nest garage but won't sit in the car; asymptotes walk into the kitchen but won't sit at the table. Don't they need to make up their fucking mind? Grif hates unnecessary work. Isn't this, at the end of the day, a question of: will you? Or won't you?

Isn't it better to leave the answer in Schrodinger's box?

Simmons turns the water up higher. Simmons says, over the sound of the water: "It's true that someone needs to go with Caboose."

"Thanks, Captain Obvious," says Grif.

"I'm a private, if you forgot."

"Even worse. You gotta up your stating-the-obvious game to get that promotion."

Again, Simmons doesn't rise to the bait. Grif is rapidly beginning to hate this. "I'm just saying," Simmons mumbles, "it's, y'know. It's good. We'll figure it out. Caboose won't go alone. Something will happen, and you can go with him--since it sounds like you, um, are volunteering? Because..."

And he seems to realize that if he starts a sentence with _because_ , he actually has to speculate about why Grif, after receiving news of the death of his only family, suddenly disappears and then reappears with a harebrained scheme to accompany a member of the opposing team on a roadtrip, out loud, to Grif's face. Simmons promptly and visibly begins to panic. Grif speaks over him:

"Caboose not going alone requires us to get our shit together," says Grif. "Considering that we've been incapable of that for the last seven years? Tall order."

"Still," says Simmons, and peters out. "If you really..." he begins, and stops again.

Grif doesn't like this at all.

"Hey, Simmons," says Grif. "I've got an idea."

Simmons, of all out-of-character things, seems interested by this prospect.

"You're going to love it," Grif assures him.

Simmons's face immediately turns suspicious.

"No, really, I promise," says Grif. "Let's break up."


	49. Schrödinger's Homosexuals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "FALSE ALLEGATIONS. REPUTATIONAL SLANDER. ALTERNATIVE FACTS."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for reference:  
> ch 11 for attempting to contact kai  
> ch 13 for simmons's (and his parents') denial tactics  
> ch 17 for simmons verbally tearing a person a new one right before they died  
> ch 28 for suspiciously unheterosexual activity from simmons before fake dating was ever suggested by grif  
> ch 33 for simmons nearly straight up demanding to fake date grif  
> ch 39 for "what does being in love look like," "love is being left alone," and "love looks like divorce"  
> ch 41 for 21 days

In the moment directly before Grif gets his ass kicked, Grif thinks that he deserves some credit for taking initiative. After all, last time a relationship went topside, he’d let Shailene do the dirty work.

She’d had to come to his apartment to break up with him, which somehow had struck him as wrong--you’d think the dumpee should be the one to be hounding the dumper. She’d tried to pick up the interrogation she’d started over text: What’s happening? What’s going on? Is it Kai again? Can you talk to me? You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to, I can go, just tell me something--anything, Dex, just let me know that you still--you haven’t given up on this? I thought you had been!--that you are! That you... were?

He didn’t even let her through the doorway.

He stood there and stared at her, barely hearing her, and didn’t think about anything at all. He didn’t even feel sorry. Didn’t even feel panicked or think about what he could respond. Sometimes he made noises, but mostly to avoid talking. He just stood and waited for things to be over. He wanted it to be over. He didn’t even know what he wanted to be over. And when she’d talked herself out and reached the point of no words, it was just two of them, staring at each other through the doorway, her on the outside in the sunlight and him in the musty, grey-mold haze of his apartment with all the windows shut. He still hadn’t moved to let her in the door.

Shailene Hashimoto, at the end of the day, was a wonderful girl, in the most mundane, everyday sort of way, in the way that Sarge is, or Caboose, or even Donut: Shailene treated everyone as best as she knew how, which was mostly comprised of her own experience of how she would like to be treated. She, as a person who’d never liked being yelled at and was more likely to be terrified than inspired by a show of anger, wouldn’t go so far as to push anyone into making any decision not out of their own free will, in large part because she’d had the good fortune of being surrounded by adults who’d eventually make a decision for her if she dawdled too long, and that decision would end up being the best one for everyone involved anyway.

She'd really meant it when she said that if Grif wasn't up for this right now, if he needed some time to sort out his life, then they could take a break. She hadn't meant that as code for breaking up; she really had meant a break that ends so they could pick it back up again later. But Grif could never have believed that. Wasn't safe. Wasn't right. Wasn't the way of his world. "Taking a break" meant that this was the end. Over and done with.

Shailene was a golden people-pleaser, born and bred. It'd been so easy. She'd done exactly what he'd wanted, and left peaceably.

Considering that this is Grif's only experience to date with breaking up with people, he assumed that breaking up with Simmons would go the same way.

Then the moment of self-congratulation and self-pity ends: "Let's break up" comes out of Grif's mouth, and Simmons stops moving and lets all the dishes clatter into the sink. Still: when Simmons turns around, sleeves rolled up to his elbows and hands still soapy and wet, and looks Grif dead in the eye, Grif experiences a time-honored, traditional encounter part-and-parcel to all long-term relationships: knowing, on sight, when your significant and significantly-peeved other is about to _roast_ you.

 

* * *

 

 

Here’s where Grif miscalculated:

One: Simmons, unlike Shailene, does not treat other people the best way he knows how. Simmons is a garbage can who primarily acts to treat other people as will best suit himself, and the only reason why he isn't resultingly repellent for it is because he's entirely ineffectual.

Two: When Grif tells Simmons that they should break up, he’s asking Simmons to _agree_ with him. And for all this egg-shell, broken-glass, asymptotic conversational nonsense, Simmons's job description, in the department of agreeing or disagreeing with Dexter Grif, is clearly delineated: Simmons is for bickering, insulting Grif’s life choices, getting made fun of right back, lobbing minor temper tantrums as Grif looks on in apathy and amusement. Simmons is _not_ for backing up anything Grif does or thinks or suggests or is. Any compatibility they might really, actually have? They don’t agree for that kind of compatibility to happen: they have to fight for that sliver of similarity, the margin where the venn diagram overlaps, for it to be anything real. Anything less than their best argument would be dishonest. Grif, whether he knows it or not, _depends_ on Simmons being unable to agree with Grif's life choices.

Three: Simmons only has one processable emotion in his entire body, and it's Anger.

 

* * *

 

 

"Okay, this _really_ isn't that big of a deal," says Grif, before Simmons can say anything. "You _heard_ Sarge! There's no way to make this happen unless we break up! And if we don't make it happen, Caboose dies! And, you know, the whole fake dating thing was really shooting us in the foot there, because now it's had the _opposite_ effect and Sarge is hounding us with all these shitty couples jokes now--"

"I've been sitting here," Simmons interrupts, "for _twenty one fucking days_ , wondering why you're not talking to anyone and you're zoned out and why you've ignored literally everyone in the entire base and done a complete one-eighty on the fake-dating thing, and now that you've _finally_ emerged from your disaster zone of a room, the first thing out of your mouth is _let's break up_?"

"Fake dating was a bad idea and it's an even worse idea now!"

"I was sitting here," Simmons interrupts again, voice louder now, "wondering if you were _dying_ or if we should, I dunno, hold a funeral for your sister or something, try and get in touch with her somehow, stewing over you turning into some attic gremlin--"

Grif freezes. "Stewing, as in you were _worried_ \--?"

"NO I WASN'T," says Simmons, "that's lies, I would never say such a--"

"You literally _just_ said you were worr--"

"FALSE ALLEGATIONS. REPUTATIONAL SLANDER. ALTERNATIVE FACTS ATTEMPTING TO DISTRACT FROM THE TRUTH," Simmons declares. "I'm telling you that _y_ _ou_ don't get to ghost me without a single word from you, and then turn around and say _surprise! We're not doing the fake-dating anymore and you don't get a say_! Because I'm pretty sure that's not how fake-dating works! That's shitty business-dealing! _Caboose_ was better at this back at Rat's Nest than you are, and he hung our names from Blue Base's walls!"

"But you don't have to like, cause a real legitimate scene over this," Grif laughs weakly, "you're only my fake boyfriend--"

"That's what I'm saying!" Simmons cries.

Grif gestures wildly at the empty common room. "There's nobody else here! You don't have to act like you're losing your shit over the love of your life!"

" _No_ , if other people were here, I'd be pretending to be in love with you, and I'd say something like _Oh yes Grif I love and support all your life decisions, especially the ones that require space to be by yourself to figure your shit out_! A _real_ boyfriend would be just fine if we had to break up because it's best for everyone, and a _real_ boyfriend would throw a _fit_ over a long-distance relationship because a _real_ boyfriend wouldn't let that sort of weird in-between space fly for his _real_ relationship!"

"Your hypothetical real boyfriend sounds like a shitlord," says Grif.

"But unfortunately," Simmons continues, " _I_ still need a pass to get Sarge off our backs at convenient times, and _I_ am not going to stop nagging at your dirty dishes and your unwashed socks and slug-like life choices! _I_ still live at this base with you, and _I_ am still pretty _firmly_ entrenched in everything you do and say and all your shitty shortcomings as a human being! I'm not here for love, I'm here because we're in this shithole called Red Team  _together_ whether we like it or not."

Grif doesn't even open his mouth. Simmons jabs a finger at him, coming almost dangerously close to poking his eye out.

"So unless you can think of a better reason to break up than  _there's only three seats on the Warthog and I can't be fucked to think of obviously better alternative solutions_ , you're not getting rid of me, because I'm not your boyfriend. I'm your _fake_ boyfriend."

"...You can't just _say_ that and not have a plan," says Grif, when he finds his voice. "We... If we keep doing the fake-dating thing, we still actually gotta do something about Caboose. There isn't another way, so..."

"Of course there is," says Simmons, like Grif is stupid not to know. “Honestly, Grif, it's so obvious. We’ll fake-break up."

“Fake-break up,” Grif repeats.

“If we can fake-date, we can fake-break up. It’s completely logical,” says Simmons.

There's a silence.

"Isn't fake-breaking up," says Grif, "what I suggested to begin with...?"

"No, you said that we should break up the fake-dating," says Simmons. "Fake-breaking up is pretending to break up the fake-dating, but we're actually still fake-dating, but we're actually not dating at all because we're straight."

There's another silence. This time, something inside Grif begins either laughing, or shrieking, or both.

"You're telling me," says Grif, "that we're--correct me if I'm wrong, I wanna get this right--that we, two dudes--"

"--with zero feelings for each other--" Simmons says.

"--yes, we, two dudes with zero feelings for each other, are _faking_ the act of committed and long-term dating, putting on the _appearance_ of dating to everyone else, when in reality we're _not_ dating. But because of the Caboose thing, we have to at least put on the appearance of not dating, so... instead of just doing away with the fake-dating thing altogether and admitting the truth that we're not dating... we're going to _fake_ breaking up our _fake_ relationship, so that we look like two dudes with zero feelings for each other, when in _reality_ we're _still_ dating--"

"--fake dating," says Simmons.

"--right, okay, we fake breaking up our fake relationship so we look like we're not fake-dating, but actually we're still fake-dating, but _double_ actually we're not dating at all."

"Yes," says Simmons.

"And this makes us straight," says Grif.

"Yes," says Simmons.

Grif thinks about this.

"This... makes sense?" says Grif.

"Yes, it does," says Simmons.

"...It does?" says Grif.

"Yes," says Simmons.

And it might be how fucking insane this is--or it might just be that Grif is tired and doesn't think he can go on and then  _every time_ it turns out he totally, absolutely can, if he's got Simmons around--or maybe he's just tired, in general--but he sighs and tries not to laugh and says with the straightest face he can manage: "Simmons, you might be the stupidest person I've ever met."

"Calling  _me_ stupid!" Simmons says, sounding offended. " _I_ wasn't the one who tried to break up with me! _You_ almost threw away a whole month worth of fake-dating gambit because _you_ didn't realize you could fake-break up with me. It's _obviously_ the clearest and most obvious option on the table! Seriously, Grif!" he says, rolling his eyes. "Sometimes I don't even understand how you function. Haven't you ever tried thinking logically?"

Grif bursts into laughter. Simmons can't get him to explain and can't even begin to fathom what Grif might be laughing at. It's really the worst, because Grif kind of loves this stupid man.


	50. Unlimited Logic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I just have an unstoppable compulsion to be as awful and disappointing and disgusting as possible at all times, sir.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for the 50th landmark of this slowburn romance piece of shit, i present to you: the otp breaks up.
> 
> they weren’t even together.

The next order of business is, of course, to fake break up and go on their merry way to save Caboose from himself. And once they’ve successfully fake-broken up, they can continue to fake-date in secret by themselves, with no one around, which completely doesn’t defeat the purpose of fake dating or flaunting a false relationship whatsoever.

This makes sense. This is the clearest and most straightforward method of dating. There are no contradictions or logical fallacies here.

_Obviously._

The issue then becomes how to actually go about fake-breaking up. Clearly, Simmons has to break up with Grif rather than the other way around, otherwise Sarge will kill him for having not put a hundred-and-ten-percent effort into making their relationship work--but other than that, Grif doesn’t actually have an answer for what they should do. They had a talk about what dating looks like and they had a talk about what being in love looks like, so now Grif guesses they have to figure out what _breaking up_ looks like. Right?

“Why bother? It’ll be easy. Just be yourself,” says Simmons.

“ _Being myself_ is suddenly grounds for you to break up with me?” Grif says.

“Well, weren’t you the one who said that the whole beauty of fake-dating is that you don’t actually have to change anything about the relationship?”

“Yeah, but—if all I have to do to make you break up with me is _be myself_ , then why on earth would you have ever dated me?”

“Because we’re not dating, we’re _fake_ dating,” says Simmons.

“Oh, right,” says Grif. “Of course. Makes total sense.”

“You were the one who wanted to not tell Donut we were fake dating and fake-date in secret,” Simmons reminds him. God damn, did Simmons have a long memory, sometimes.

“But like…” Grif chews on this. “Y’know, not like I’m _worried_ about it or anything, but how concerned should I be that you have such a ready-made plan about how to fake-break up with me? Not that, y’know, I care or anything, just...”

“Why would you be concerned?” asks Simmons. “We’re not even dating. It’s _fake_ _dating_ , Grif, keep up.”

“Ohhhhh. Right,” says Grif.

As one can see, in the face of their incredible logic and absolutely-no-feelings-involved business dealership, Sarge stands no chance.

 

* * *

 

 

Over the next four days, Caboose packs a singular bag, and Grif destroys everything in Red Base.

He leaves old clothes along every inch of the hallway, especially the grosses, smelliest, weirdest, lumpiest socks. He cleans out all the tupperware in the fridge except for the last two bites, just so he can say he didn’t finish it off when everyone else inevitably grills him for it. He takes naps on the communal couch all day and plays old Star Trek episodes at top volume all night. He ruins everyone’s toothbrushes in the bathroom. He “forgets” to take out of the trash. He leaves used plates in weird places until the food residue has crusted to a yellow resin. Utensils go missing. He does the laundry precisely once, to ruin the washing machine to the point that Lopez shrieks. He picks his nose and flicks the boogers at Donut. He rearranges all of Sarge’s tools in the middle of the night and half-assedly blames Simmons with a shit-eating grin that convinces nobody.

It’s kind of gross how little he had to change from his real, every day behavior. How he had to change even less from his behavior from the past few weeks of lurking in his room. Grif tries not to think about that too hard.

By the time Grif escalates to flinging boxes of explosives into the rooftop launchers and watching them explode, Simmons is ready to kill him.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” he hisses even before he’s gotten himself fully onto the roof. “That’s our _ammunition_ , Grif!”

“So what?” Grif says. “Who are we shooting with that ammunition?”

“You’re ruining my spreadsheets!”

“Seriously? Are you still doing those things? Nobody cares, Simmons. Sarge asked you to do those to get you off his back.”

“They’re therapeutic!”

“That’s one of the saddest things I’ve ever heard, honestly.”

“Lay off! I don’t insult _your_ way of life!”

“You do, actually,” says Grif. “Routinely. Weekly. Daily. All the time, in fact.”

“What’s going on up there?” comes Sarge’s voice. “Who’s making reckless and dangerous explosions without me and why didn’t they invite me?!”

“It’s Grif, sir,” says Simmons.

“Oh,” says Sarge, poking his helmeted head out of the roof trapdoor. “In that case, how dare you be so reckless and dangerous with our precious ammunition, Private Grif?!”

“Sorry, sir,” says Grif. “I just have an unstoppable compulsion to be as awful and disappointing and disgusting as possible at all times, sir.”

“Your self-awareness is admirable,” Sarge says, “but you could do one better and stop that, good lord. You scared Donut half to death! I can barely hear my stories on the radio!”

“No can do, sir,” says Grif. “This is just the way I am: permanently annoying and good for nothing. Take it or leave it.”

“I’ve had it,” says Simmons, picking up the obvious set-up line Grif had just given him. “This is disgusting and I can’t handle it anymore!”

Sarge’s helmet swings around towards Simmons. “Uh, wait a minute, Private Simmons—” says Sarge.

“Sorry, Simmons, this is just who I am,” says Grif.

“See? You won’t even explain!” Simmons cries. “It’s like we never _talk_ anymore, Grif! What happened to us?!”

Sarge says, “Hold on—”

“I continue to be an incorrigible disgusting blob of human waste,” Grif recites. “There is nothing you can do to change that.”

“Er—” says Sarge.

“Tell him, Sarge,” says Grif. “I’m a waste of lazy, ugly space, and not only will I amount to nothing, but I’ll only get _worse_. I’m not worth the effort.”

“I never—”

“Leave Sarge out of this,” Simmons snaps.

“Oh, sorry, I figured you might listen to him considering how you worship the air he breathes,” says Grif. “Go on, tell him, Sarge, I’m a stinky rotting dirtbag.”

“If you would just _talk_ to me,” Simmons pleads.

Grif can barely contain his grin. Damn, Simmons is actually doing all right. “Sorry, I’m incapable of human communication, Simmons. Every word that’s ever come out of my mouth has only been the coincidence of a million monkeys at the typewriters inside my empty brain.”

“Grif, it’s _not that hard_ to just put your dishes in the sink! Or like, _not_ throw explosives off the top of Red Base! I’m not asking you to tell me your life story!”

“Sorry, nobody home,” says Grif. “Only monkeys here.”

“You’re fucking impossible!” Simmons exclaims.

“That’s the spirit!” Grif says cheerfully.

“I don’t know _how_ I put up with you!”

Any second now, Simmons is going to deliver the finisher: “I really don’t know either,” says Grif. “How _do_ you put up with me?”

“Oh, just shut it and come down from there,” says Simmons, as he usually does when he’s done arguing and ready to just forgive and forget the whole thing.

And that’s when Grif and Simmons simultaneously realize: Simmons got _too_ deep into the method acting, and _forgot to break up with Grif._

What ensues is a series of significant looks, à la Expressive Eyebrow Twitch Charades: _what the fuck_ from Grif and _well why don’t you do the break-up_ from Simmons and _I can’t or Sarge will literally shoot me where I stand_ from Grif and _oh fuck shit dammit_ from Simmons and _fucking do something!_ from Grif, because Sarge is right there, watching them communicate via only eyebrows and seven years of bickering experience.

“Uh. I mean. I don’t know how I put up with you,” says Simmons woodenly. “I just. Can’t take this anymore.”

Grif internally buries his head in his hands.

“I am just,” says Simmons. “Just. So upset with you… right now…?”

Grif internally buries his face into even more hands. Grows new mental hands just to bury his mental face into.

“Uhhhhhh,” says Simmons, who’s clearly forgotten the lines to his own script.

“I can imagine you’d be upset,” Grif prompts, “considering that I’ve been rude, and impossible, and…”

“Yes!” says Simmons. “You’ve been rude and impossible and frankly, Grif, I’ve had it!”

“Oh no, Simmons,” says Grif flatly. “You’re breaking my heart.”

“But we can still be friends!” Simmons adds quickly.

Grif could fucking _kick_ him. For god’s sake, stop fucking pulling the punches! Just do the deed!

“Now hang on,” says Sarge suddenly. “I--I know it ain’t none of my business, but--maybe you two boys just need a breather, or--just cool off before you make a decision y’all might regret—”

“Let Simmons make his own decisions, old man,” says Grif. “You’ve really had it with my shit behavior, haven’t you, Simmons.”

“Yes. Right. I have indeed,” says Simmons, without expression. “I can’t do this anymore. I desperately need to break up with you. Right now. Immediately. Because I can’t stand this. And as a sad and heartbroken—”

Grif clears his throat.

“--as an unrepentant and merciless boyfriend who is dumping you without regret,” Simmons amends, “I conveniently want nothing more than to spend some time away from you, preferably with you going with Caboose and me staying at Red Base to keep watch.”

“Oh no,” says Grif. “I’m in such emotional turmoil. I did everything I possibly could to keep this relationship going, and yet I was tragically still too repulsive as a human being to make this relationship work so maybe please don’t kill me if there’s any eavesdroppers around with a shotgun handy—”

There’s a sudden loud sob from the direction of Sarge’s helmet.

“Oh no,” says Grif. “Wow, fancy seeing you there, Sarge, I completely forgot you were there this whole time and conveniently witnessed all that because I was too busy being heartlessly dumped by Simmons. How are you today, Sarge.”

“Nothing! I’m fine!” Sarge sniffs. “I just--dammit, Grif, I _told_ you to not fuck it up—”

“I didn’t! Simmons broke up with _me_!”

“I don’t care!” Sarge hollers. “Dammit! I’ll strangle you myself! A-As soon as I wipe all this rainwater out of my eyes—”

“It’s not raining,” says Grif.

“And you’re wearing a helmet,” says Simmons.

“Don’t argue with me while completing each other’s sentences, you’re just makin’ it worse!” Sarge wails, and flees down the roof trapdoor.

There’s a moment of silence, punctuated by loud banshee mourning noises and Donut yelling something about cucumbers.

Grif and Simmons look at each other.

“Nailed it,” says Simmons.

“We sure the fuck did,” says Grif.


	51. Letter Day, pt. 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "No news is good news!"

Donut corners Grif by the Warthog outside Red Base within the hour. “Oh my _god_ , Grif, are you okay?” Donut cries. “I heard you got totally dumped!”

“Yup, that’s me,” says Grf, in a flat monotone. “I was brutally dumped and I’m incredibly heartbroken even now. Simmons, the DnD-playing, fanfic-writing, angry, runty, nerdy edgelord, is truly the old flame who got away and will haunt me for the rest of my days.”

“Oh, wow, really?” says Donut. “Honestly, that’s super surprising, because _I_ always thought that you two were closer to the spring-fling side of the spectru—”

“I am _incredibly heartbroken_ and will _never recover_ ,” says Grif firmly.

“Uh-huh, okay, you just don’t really look like you’re heartbrok—”

“I cry tears every minute of the day on the inside,” says Grif.

Donut appears _delighted_. “Wow, Grif, really? Tell me more about all your feelings! I think this is the first time you’ve really opened up to me?! Grif can we paint our—”

“No,” says Grif.

“Awww,” says Donut. “But—”

“ _No_.”

“If you’re _sure_ you’ll be okay! Because it sounds like Simmons really pounded it into you when he broke up with you!”

“Yes, he obliterated my tender loving feelings for him into a million angsty pieces,” Grif says without expression. “A million angsty pieces that I’m not sharing with you.”

“No, like, not just a regular pounding—Sarge said he said all these _awful_ things about you! Really nasty and dirty, but like the _good_ kind of nasty and dirty, you know? Bordered into bullying, he said. Things like ‘disappointing’ and ‘disgusting’ and ‘dirtbag’ and ‘waste of space’—like, _really_ ,” says Donut, “what kind of person _says_ those kinds of things about people they care about?”

Sarge comes into view around the corner of Red Base, spots Grif, stops dead in his tracks, flails his hands, and disappears again.

“Really,” Grif tells Donut. “What kind of person would do that.”

 

* * *

 

 

Grif is _conveniently_ packed and ready to go by the Warthog within hours of the break-up—oh, sorry, the _fake_ break-up, because they’re still secretly fake dating and everything makes sense. It’s not a moment too soon, because a few minutes after that, Caboose comes out of Blue Base with his duffel bag full of a singular washcloth and six toothbrushes. 

“Morning, sunshine!” Donut calls.

Caboose waves noncommittally. “Is Gruff coming with me after all?”

“Yeah, I—is that all you’re bringing?” Grif asks.

“What else would I possibly need?” Caboose replies.

Grif sighs.

So Grif and Donut spend the next hour packing water, clothes, MREs, Caboose’s favorite rubber duck, a tablet with dumb games for when Caboose inevitably gets bored, a few bags of candy, and actual fucking toothpaste for Caboose to use with his six toothbrushes. Grif draws the line when Donut wants to transfer all of Grif’s stuff into a different bag so Caboose and Grif can have matching luggage. “I’m not his _parent_ ,” Grif tells Donut.

Donut gives him a doubtful look.

By this time, Simmons and Lopez have poked their heads out of Red Base. “Are you guys packing?” Simmons asks.

Donut immediately holds up his hands. “Give Grif some space!” he cries. “You can’t just walk up here after you brutally crushed Grif’s heart into the dirt!”

“We’re still on the same team!” Simmons says.

“Yes! Well!” Donut huffs. “It’s a good thing that Grif and Sarge are going off with Caboose for a while, because you two still being on the same team is going to get _aaaaawkward_. Like breaking up with someone and not unfriending them on Facebook!”

“Oh yes, extremely awkward,” says Grif.

“Because crushing people’s feelings is a thing we did,” says Simmons.

“How will our former friendship ever recover,” says Grif.

“Our entire dynamic ruined,” says Simmons.

“I guess we can’t talk to each other ever again,” says Grif.

“The end of Red Team as we know it,” says Simmons.

“¿Por qué algo acerca de esta ruptura parece extraño ( _Why does something about this break-up seem odd_ )?” says Lopez.

“Yeah, their whole dynamic is super off today, Lopez!” says Donut. “But that’s _totally_ understandable.”

“Es porque esos dos nunca salieron en primer lugar ( _Nothing is off because those two were never dating in the first place_ ),” says Lopez.

“Have some sympathy, Lopez!”

“Como de costumbre, tengo razón, y nadie sabe ( _As usual, I’m right, and nobody knows_ ),” says Lopez. “Mi único consuelo es mi intelecto claramente superior, que morirá en la oscuridad, al igual que el resto de ustedes ( _My only consolation is my clearly superior intellect, which will die in obscurity, just like the rest of you_ ).”

“Seriously, Simmons, even Lopez is telling you to go away, now,” says Donut. “Go get Sarge! Sarge is the one who still needs to put his stuff on the Warthog, anyway!”

“Sarge is busy eating an entire gallon of ice cream and watching sad rom-coms,” says Simmons.

“Oh _no_ !” Donut cries. “Did _he_ get broken up with, too? Was it his secret spouse who we never see but sends vague emails every so often asking him to fill in his credit card number and CV?!”

“I’m pretty sure that’s not—” Simmons begins.

“Come on, Simmons! We have to save him from himself! Gently open him up with nice words and praise!”

“I’m _pretty_ sure that’s—”

“Giveyourheartbrokenexboyfriendhisspaceyouheathen,” Donut says.

“Wait—”

“Okay thanks for coming with me Simmons!” Donut says cheerfully, and grabs both Lopez’s and Simmons’s arms and drags him away. Simmons gives Grif a helpless look at he disappears back into Red Base. Lopez just looks like he’s wishing for death, as per usual.

Caboose looks at Grif suspiciously. “Are you… dying?” he asks.

Grif snorts. “No, it’s—” and then he thinks about that for a second, legitimately actually thinks about having to explain to Caboose the whole thing where Simmons and Grif decided to fake date, and then tried to fake date in secret, and then got outed by Donut and Lopez, and then fake dated publicly, and then had a _fake_ break up so they could go back to fake dating in secret, and just gives that up as a bad job. “You know what? I’m not explaining that to you. I’m fine. Let’s get this show on the road.”

“Well, if you’re sure you want to go so fast!” says Caboose. “Simon said you wanted to talk to your sister. Did you do that yet? We can’t leave without talking to your sister!”

Grif doesn’t react. Doesn’t even look up.

But maybe Caboose can smell the way that Grif freezes, because he says, “It sounded like a good idea. Isn’t it? Don’t you want to?”

“Nope,” says Grif.

“Really? But she’s your sister!”

“Can’t sent a letter to Blood Gulch. No internet. Not like there’s a post office.”

“Oh,” says Caboose. “That makes sense. I can’t send a letter to my sisters, either.”

“There’s internet connection on the moon, though,” says Grif. “That’s where your sisters are, right? Earth’s moon?”

“I don’t have their email addresses or phone numbers,” says Caboose. “I forgot them all.”

“...Oh,” says Grif.

“But I’m sure they’re fine, though!” says Caboose brightly. “No news is good news!”

"Absolutely," says Grif, and leaves it at that.


	52. Talk Story

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, despite himself, Grif has a sentiment.

Before Grif and Simmon shipped Kai off to Blue Base, Simmons asks why Grif is just as shocked as everyone else whenever Kai (“Sister”) opens her mouth and something wild and mildly terrifying like “seven abortions” comes out. But how Grif feels or thinks and literally any detail about Grif’s life is none of Simmons’s nosey, stuck-up beeswax, so Grif say something about Kai being her own creature and something something about a circus? Whatever. Simmons had stopped asking. Not entirely hard to make Simmons stop asking about anything unrelated to himself, to be honest.

“Wow, lay off the angry stringbean,” says Kai, chewing gum loudly and popping it over and over, dutifully refusing to do anything to help transfer her belongings into the Red Base bedrooms. Grif doesn’t even know where she _got_ gum. “If you’re having fun when you talk to him, then what’s, like, _the problem_.”

Grif shoves what little belongings she brought with her onto her bed. “For one: _I’m not having fun_.”

Kai rolls her eyes. “Yeah, when you two were talking earlier? Looked like you were having fun to _me_.”

“Wh--no, _why_ would I be having _fun_ ? Simmons is nosey and stuck-up and thinks he’s better than literally everyone else and he’d sell you out to Sarge for even the _promise_ of a brownie point. It’s insane!”

“Hot,” says Kai.

“I don’t know where you picked this catchphrase up from, but you _gotta_ stop saying that,” Grif says.

She grins and pops her gum. Kai has this look in her eye that Grif hasn’t seen in way too long. So long, in fact, that he doesn’t remember that it usually means Kai is about to make her own entertainment, which means nothing good for anyone else. “Do I gotta stop saying that in general, or just about Simmons? You got dibs or something? Oh, if not, then I call—”

“No, you _can’t_ call dibs on Simmons,” Grif interrupts.

“Why not?!”

“Because he’s a bad idea,” Grif says.

“I _love_ those,” Kai says.

Oh, Grif knows she does. He just didn’t know that she had enough introspection to make a joke about it. “No, listen,” says Grif. “He’s not like, a regular bad idea. He’s The Bad Idea. He’s the for-real kind. The angry kind. The…” Grif casts around for an idea, remembers the incident in the middle of the night, and lies: “The kind that punches bathroom mirrors in the middle of the night.”

“Hmmmm,” says Kai. “Hot.”

“No! Bad Kai! Not hot!”

“Don’t tell me what I do or don’t find hot,” Kai retorts. “This is oppression! Justice and freedom for female sexuality, Dex!”

“It’s not freedom if you just wind up with the same misogynistic fuckboy who was oppressing you in the first place!”

“Well if it’s not freedom, it’s called _the pursuit of happiness_ , and it’s in the constitution, bitch! I call dibs!”

“I said you _can’t_ —”

“I totally can unless you called dibs first!”

“Fine! I did!” Grif cries. “I totally called dibs on Simmons first! So you’re not allowed! Now leave him alone!”

Kai fistpumps the air. “YES! I fuckin’ CALLED it!”

“I—” Grif has the bad feeling he just got played. “What? No, you didn’t call anything, there’s nothing to call—”

“I totally did, and I totally knew it,” Kai says, “and I’m totally gonna tell the Blues that I was _totally right_ that you’re hitting that.”

Grif feels faint. “H-Hitting...?”

“Tapping that ass,” says Kai. “The pasty flat freckled white-boy ass. Simmons’s ass.”

“ _What_ ,” Grif says.

“Banging him like a screen door,” says Kai.

“I know what you mean, you don’t have to clarify—”

“Mowing that ass like grass and you’re the sexy lawn-mowing maintenance guy with the, cough cough, large tool belt—”

“I get it!” Grif cries. “You can stop now, thanks!”

“Please tell me the curtains match the drapes,” says Kai. “If I can’t have him, I wanna at least have an accurate fantasy for mastur—”

“I’M UNCOMFORTABLE,” says Grif, “and I take back my dibs—”

“No take-backs!” Kai says gleefully. God, Grif could fucking  _smack_ her.

Little siblings are the  _worst_.

 

* * *

 

 

Grif gets the peculiar feeling that Kai hasn’t so much changed as she has become more herself. Even though Grif doesn’t believe in having a “true self” or any such garbage, or that nonsense about alcohol stealing your family members away like fairies replacing your children with changelings—there’s something more whole about her, now. A little fuller. More complete.

Kai and Grif had lived separate lives for a while, now, but. Y’know. Sometimes, despite himself, Grif has a sentiment.

Only sometimes. And only a singular sentiment, thanks.

 

* * *

 

 

Grif is already transitioning from despair that Kai is here to channeling that into needing to eat an entire bag of Fritos. He stomps out of Kai’s guest bedroom and into the kitchen. Because honestly? Seriously? Kai came here to look for _him?_

He suspects that there’s a menage of elements involved. That can’t be _entirely_ it. Honolulu is absolutely a one-horse town; despite its reputation as a tourist trap, there’s surprisingly nothing for locals to do once you’ve exhausted the surfing, mini-putts, and the shopping malls that aren’t too expensive yet. Maybe that’s why she’s here? Jesus, if she wanted entertainment, she could have just gone to the mainland or something. Hitched a ride to join the circus. Or maybe she was just out of career options and thought she’d hook up with the biggest job provider in the current industry. Maybe _that_ was it.

The idea that she came here to find _him_? Fuckin’ ridiculous.

Kai drifts into the kitchen after him and spits her gum into the trash bin. “So how’d _you_ end up here?” she asks.

“Drafted, dum-dum,” Grif says. He pulls out a smaller bag of chips and rips it open.

“No, like-- _here_ here. You joined a billion years ago! You guys haven’t been here that long.”

“Uhhh,” says Grif. “Last outpost went kinda wonky.”

“Did you guys, like, lose or something?”

“Sure,” says Grif. “We lost.”

“Where do the guys go when they lose?”

Grif looks at her. “In... the ground.”

Kai squints. “...I thought this was capture the flag.”

Grif doesn’t know where to start with that. He shoves chips in his face and rummages for more food. He’s not dealing with this, lord and jesus.

“Did you like…” Kai reaches for the chips he left on the table and he smacks her away. “Ugh, fine, you’re so _stingy_. Did you bust out of that outpost like an action hero or what?”

“I took a nap,” says Grif. “In the closet. So I think they thought I was already dead.”

“Classic Dex,” says Kai.

Grif takes a moment to feel absolutely scalped alive, naked in public, curling up over the alarm bells ringing that he’s done something terrible and shameful just by admitting to an event in a public space, and Kai will never know or understand that it’s basically killed him to say the three sentences that he did. Then he gets over it, because if he’s not gonna have an emotion over the winter outpost, he’s not gonna have an emotion over having an emotion over the winter outpost.

“Yep,” says Grif.

Kai has taken the moment to snag the remainder of his chips. He glares at her, but not very hard, because he’s already unearthed a package of Twinkies.

“Well, it’s a good thing that stuff always gets better,” says Kai, like it’s a statement of fact. The earth is round. The military sucks. Stuff always gets better.

Grif hunches his shoulders and doesn’t reply.

 

* * *

 

 

Grif doesn’t want to believe that that’s true, because frankly, believing that things always get better would just complicated the nice, sheltered hole in the dirt he’s made for himself and his soft underbelly. There’s nothing that swindles and kills you like hope, after all, and he’s had enough of that in his life. But later, when Kai’s gone off to Blue Base and Grif is alone in his bunk, he thinks about how she laughed at him as she strung together entire hours of sobriety. How clear her eyes looked without the constant hangover.

He thinks about the whistling crack in the glass watchtower: a clean shot right through Jackson’s head, who’d never even realized there were Elites around to pull the alarm for. Grif had sat in the watchtower for days—weeks—anywhere to escape the blood he couldn’t get off the walls. In the watchtower, everything was quiet. The snow kept falling. The air was clear and cold. The little hole where the bullet had gone through perfectly round, with hardly any cracks, and sometimes when the wind blew just right, it made a sound like music.

He’d fucking lived, unfortunately, because of a stupid closet and a nap, but more specifically, because some Pelican came by and saw Grif hollering and shouting from the watchtower: _I’m still here! I’m still here!_ And he can’t even explain why he’d _done_ that, either, when he had no right to say or do anything when everyone else’s corpses were cold under the snow—just some stupid reflex to stick around that all humans seem to have.

He looks over at Simmons, Kai, and Donut across the way in the shared dorm room. Donut’s sound asleep with his facemask over his eyes, and Kai’s snoring loud as fuck, but Simmons is still up, using a tiny reading light to scribble notes on some report for Sarge. It’s nearly midnight. God, what a fucking nerd.

Simmons glances up and notices Grif looking at him. He covers his report papers defensively. “What’re you looking at,” he whispers.

“A huge kiss-ass writing a report Sarge isn’t ever going to read,” Grif whispers back.

“You don’t know that,” Simmons hisses.

Grif rolls his eyes and settles facedown into his pillow. He turns the idea over in his head: _Things get better, if you’re still around to see it._ He doesn’t know if he likes it. For now, it’s easiest to just hold it in the almost-dark, like warming up a cold stone against his skin. _Things get better. I’m still here._

Simmons’s pencil keeps scratching. Eventually, there’s a flutter of paper as the report is put away, and the light goes off.


	53. Last Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grif's got a horrible thought.

It’s not a big deal that Sarge and Grif are going off to find Tucker, because the coordinates aren’t even a full day of driving away and once they find him, they’re coming right back. This explains why there is absolutely no sentimental reason why Grif sneaks away from the disaster pile-up that is Sarge’s “luggage” (guns and guns and guns) to the back of Red Base, where Simmons has also coincidentally wound up to escape Donut’s eyes.

“Something definitely went wrong,” says Simmons. “We were supposed to be fake-dating to get Sarge off our back, and now he’s wailing about sad romcoms and why Kate Winslet didn’t just put Leonard DiCaprio on the driftwood with her. And then we were supposed to be getting Donut _off_ our back, and now he’s telling me that if I so much as breathe at you again, he’s going to put bees in my sheets.” Simmons pauses. “And ‘not in the fun way,’ according to him.”

“Do we want to know what the fun way is,” Grif asks.

Simmons thinks about this. “Wasn’t there that thing Cleopatra did where—”

“We don’t want to know what the fun way is,” Grif says firmly.

“I can’t believe I’m going to be stuck at this base with just Donut,” Simmons sighs.

“Sucks to be you.”

“Who am I going to complain to about him?” Simmons whines. “Lopez? Lopez doesn’t even understand English.”

“We’ve got a radio on the Warthog, so Sarge can call your lonely ass,” says Grif. “Caboose, too.” He hesitates. “And I guess I’ll have to, because of course I will be sobbing from the separation of our long-distance fake relationship, except also not sobbing because of our fake-fake break-up.”

“No, it’s just a fake break-up.”

“It’s a fake break-up of our fake relationship, which makes it a fake-fake break-up.”

“Two negatives make a positive which implies we actually broke up,” says Simmons, “which we _didn’t_. We’re only fake-broken up and are still fake dating.”

“Just by ourselves,” says Grif. “Where nobody else can see us.”

“Exactly,” says Simmons.

“And I’m going to go on this road trip, without you, and be by myself, but now I’ll be in fake love, and be fake terribly sad to be separated, just entirely fake cut up on the inside, and we, as the heart-wrenching fake lovers we are, will share a passionate fake goodbye kiss before we part, that will be entirely straight because it’s all fake.”

“Incredibly sad for our fake romance,” says Simmons. “I'm also disinfecting your whole room while you're fake gone, by the way.”

“That's not how the fake-dating script goes!”

Simmons crosses his arms. “I’ll fake date you however I want! And that includes digging out every awful snack wrapper you’ve ever forgotten in the back of your drawers!”

“I hate this,” says Grif. “This fake relationship is awful. Take this back.”

“I'm cleaning _your_ room! I’m doing _you_ a favor!”

"This whole fake-relationship has been pointless and useless,” Grif complains. “Not only is Sarge and Donut even _more_ on our asses, but now you’re cleaning my room and won't even fake-smooch me before I leave. Simmons, what if I tragically die while off on our adventure? Are you going to bury me in a _clean_ room?"

“You don’t get buried in your _bedroom_!”

“I want to be laid to rest how I lived, Simmons. When I’m tragically shot and killed on my roadtrip, just lay me down in the grease puddle on my bedroom floor.”

Simmons bristles. "You're not going to die! You’re practically taking Caboose to the convenience store!"

"You'll be fake heartbroken over our fake missed chance to express your fake love," Grif says sadly.

"Nothing is going to happen to you!"

"We're going off to find Blues, Simmons, anything could happen! Sometimes the Blues even shoot at us, did you think about that?"

"The Blues couldn't hit you if they tried!"

“The Blues ran me over with a tank.”

Simmons wrinkles his nose. “...I’ll just give you the rest of my organs.”

“And give away the rest of your flesh parts? I’m not a robot fucker, Simmons.”

“You’ll have to be if you die again,” Simmons retorts.

Grif nearly chokes. Simmons stiffens and goes red, like he can’t believe he managed to blurt that out without stammering or overthinking it until he fucked it up—but he doesn’t take it back.

“Grif!” Sarge’s voice yells from the front of Red Base. “Get back out here, coward! I don’t know how you managed to hide your considerable flesh mass, but it’s time to go!”

“I’m coming!” Grif yells back.

Grif looks back at Simmons, who’s apparently seeming to internally combust from his own smart-ass comment from ten seconds ago, and remembers his _own_ smart-ass comment from forty seconds ago: _we, as the heart-wrenching fake lovers we are, will share a passionate fake goodbye kiss before we part, haha, hilarious,_ except oh _motherfuck_. Shit. _Shit._

This is _absolutely_ the moment for the passionate goodbye kiss.

And Simmons is looking at him with something that, if Grif’s being honest, looks a lot like anticipation.

And Grif’s got a horrible thought: If Grif tried to kiss him, it might actually work out.

The idea is _so_ awful, so uniquely thrown in the face of every most awful conclusion that Grif is always certain will come to pass, that Grif panics alone in his head for what feels like hours crammed into the space of a second. If the end of the story isn’t the worst possible conclusion, then what, exactly, is Grif supposed to do with himself? Believe in good things? Hope for something better? Accept happiness at face value, as something he might actually _have_?

But what else is he supposed to do? Whatwith Grif and Simmons separating on the other end of half a mile of dating and fake dating and fake-fake dating, the conclusion to this nonsense looms nearly as unavoidably as how he used to think the worst would always come for him. Grif's not going to wrap up this moment by just slapping Simmons on the back like a dudebro and leaving. He's not going to blow it off with a shitty joke and leave Simmons hanging.

And the most terrible, horrible, absolutely  _worst_ part about this is: He's not going to leave Simmons hanging and drop this moment, because he doesn't want to.

“Don’t worry about Kai,” Grif blurts out.

Simmons jolts. “I—she—what?”

“That thing that Donut said, about Lopez killing her at Blood Gulch,” says Grif. “I was thinking about it. No body, no death. She’s indestructible. Like a cockroach. Don't worry about it.”

“...Oh,” says Simmons. He sounds entirely thrown.

“She can take care of herself,” Grif says. “And she turned out okay in the end.”

Simmons clears his throat. Then again, like he's trying to restart his own throat. “Well, depending on a definition of okay, but…”

“She’s fine,” Grif says. “Don’t worry about it. And I was joking about dying, so don’t worry about us, either. Sarge is bringing five hundred guns.”

“You’re also bringing Caboose,” says Simmons.

“We’re not on his team, so he won’t kill us.”

Simmons snorts. His odd pinched expression expression doesn’t fade.

“Grif!” Sarge hollers.

“I’m coming!” Grif shouts back. Then to Simmons: “We’ll be back before you know it,” says Grif, and turns to go.

“Wait—” says Simmons, and grabs at Grif’s arm, but winds up with a hand around Grif’s wrist.

Grif stops. Simmons leans forward, and hesitates _again_ , his gaze darting from Grif’s eyes to his lips back to his eyes.

“Don’t get run over by a tank,” Simmons says, at length.

Grif can feel Simmons’s thumb, rubbing worriedly over the flat top of his wrist, even through the kevlar glove.

“Not planning on it,” says Grif. “We’ll probably be back in a week or something. No drama.”

“I’m never dramatic,” says Simmons, the man who’d dramatically grabbed Grif’s wrist like a pining housewife watching her man go off to war.

“Whatever, nerd,” says Grif.

Simmons’s grip begins to slide away. Without thinking, Grif catches it in his own hand and squeezes. Simmons freezes. Grif lets go before either of them can panic. He's already practically spilled his entire guts to Simmons by talking about Kai, anyway.

“Later,” says Grif.

“Oh, um, uh,” says Simmons, but Grif's already walking away.

And—look. Listen. Sure, he'll admit, it’s not the best. Grif doesn’t really believe in stuff going good. He definitely doesn't believe in things being _great_ , that's for sure. But that thing with Simmons—whatever that was—yeah, Grif will admit that was okay. Shit, it’s really okay. 

For once, Grif thinks that things might not just be okay someday, but that things might even get better.

 

 

* * *

 

 

//end part 2

//next up, part 3: AND THEN EVERYTHING GOT WORSE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heyyyy what's up. that's a wrap for part 2! i'm taking a two week break this time because im enjoying fluff week way tf too much, so i'll be back on 04/17/18. im hylian-reptile on tumblr, and im always there one way or another, hit me up lol. hope u enjoyed part 2, see u in part 3!! :)
> 
> EDIT: your end-of-part reminder to take a break if you're binge-reading this!!


	54. PART 3: AND THEN EVERYTHING GOT WORSE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What? Me? Have unresolved?? Feelings??? For Grif????” Simmons exclaims.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _“I hear it so often, ‘I could never be bulimic. I hate throwing up.’ Yeah? Me too.”_ -Bulimics on Bulimia, “Binging and Purging to Stay Alive”
> 
>  
> 
> a/n: as a reminder there's a lot more talk about mental health and eating disorders in this part!! stay cautious. as per usual there are no numbers mentioned, only behaviors.

Private Richard “Dick” Simmons, male, thirty, of the Reds and Blues, is staring out the window, thinking about fellow private Dexter Grif, male, thirty-four, also of the Reds and Blues. He is calculating the _Hand of Merope_ ’s trajectory to carry the Reds and Blues home. He is rubbing a hand over his chest, absently, wondering at the odd rhythm of his own heart. He is thinking about Grif dying.

The calculations aren’t very helpful in the technical sense, not remotely in the field of real astrophysics or ship speed. He’s only got bare bones numbers, but lining them up clacks the hard nub of the pencil against the back of his tablet through the paper, and it feels nice to focus on it. He ultimately comes up with numbers that say, based on current information the _Hand of Merope_ crew gave them, that total journey time should be about two-hundred Earth days. There’s a brief docking at the quarter and three-quarter-way marks, with a tentative skim by a small, largely silent solar system at the midway hundred day mark. The announcement from the crew said for them to not bank on docking at the midway point. After the war, some planets never got back in contact with the UNSC’s haphazard infrastructure. The tiny system of planets named Cadenza, Clef, Coda, Canon, Concerto, Cavatina, and Chorus were a few of them.

The faster they get to Blood Gulch and all settle down, the better Simmons will feel. That’s why he’s wound up, isn’t it? Because they’ve all somehow decided that Blood Gulch, the shithole that they started in that made them all feel like they wanted to either crawl out of their skin or just die, is _home_. A place they _want_ to go back to.

Maybe them getting dragged around by Carolina made them stupid and nostalgic. Things have been wild ever since Sidewinder. Or things were wild before that, but they didn’t feel very wild until the Meta almost dragged Grif off a cliff.

Eventually, Simmons flips the paper over, and starts writing down other numbers: measurements, weights, little numerical judgments of amounts. Then he scratches them out. Then he rewrites them, and then scratches them out. Maybe he should walk it off—whatever ‘it’ is—but he’s been down the road of exercising every time he feels jittery, and it didn’t end that well. He’s also been down the calories road, and that didn’t end well, either. He’s tired of thinking about food all the time. He’s tired of all of those roads.

He leans his head back and stares at the ceiling. Two hundred days on this fucking ship going back to Blood Gulch.

New arena. New habits. New routines. New eating places. New food availability. New types of food. New schedules. It’ll start off okay, Simmons knows. He’ll go along with the crowd, mostly, when it comes to decisions about what to eat and where. Then the paranoia will kick in, and he’ll try to MacGyver some dumb idea, wind up scoping out single-stalled bathrooms...

Two hundred days to fuck up his eating habits again.

Back in the day, when food was just a series of numbers, everything made sense, because everything makes more sense when you can measure it, because numbers are good facts and solid arguments, safe and in the right. Everything would be okay if you just did the math. There’s no room for error when you can calculate the value of a person to the decimal point.

By the time he looks up, Grif’s wandered into the waiting room, holding two bags of caramel popcorn and already chewing through one. Sarge doesn’t move from his old-man-in-armchair snoring pose, so the smell of food during the long wait doesn’t wake him up, apparently.

“Where’d you get that?” Simmons asks in a low voice, not really interested.

“There’s a bunch of kiosks a couple hallways down. Charge an arm and a leg, though. Tucker’s probably fighting with Wash over how expensive it is now.” Grif flops down next to Simmons. The popcorn smells freshly made, melted sugar glaze crusting on the paper bag. “Want some?”

Simmons has the funny feeling that Grif bought it _for_ Simmons, because Grif is one of those people who needs food around at all times to feel okay and low-key thinks that everyone else is the same way. He means it well, but if Simmons eats those—well, he’s not entirely sure what’ll happen. Every encounter’s a roulette, isn’t it? Will he eat it like a normal person? Stare at it until he works himself into nausea with fear? Down the whole thing in half a second and then excuse himself to throw it up? Eat a few, panic, walk in circles for hours, irritable and angry? He _hates_ finger-foods that can be eaten mindlessly.

Simmons wrinkles his nose. “Give it to someone else. Sarge, maybe.”

Grif shrugs. Tucks it under his arm. “Come on, Wash says they gave him our room assignments. Also, please tell me you’re not doing math.”

Simmons flips the paper over and glares. “I wanted to see how long the trip would take.”

“Ask a crew member, dude. Jesus, sometimes I forget how much of a math-loving nerd you are. I bet you sat in the front of class and actually took notes.”

“Did—I—did you _not_ take notes? In _class_?”

“I’m not a kissass, dude. Read Sparknotes, bullshit everything, leave your notebook at home. English class is the way to go.”

Simmons makes a disgusted noise. “English class is bullshit. Math is superior. What’s the point of writing a stupid essay? Talking about things? Saying _words_?”

“Yeah, tell ‘em, Simmons. Who needs words, anyway,” says Grif. “Now help me wake up Sarge and pick up all this luggage, we gotta go before Wash gets pissed.”

Simmons rips up his piece of paper into the tiniest pieces he can manage and dumps them in the trash.

If he ever has to tell Grif that he still thinks about the moment Grif slipped out of his hands on Sidewinder, the moment he thought Grif was dead, the dings and scrapes on Grif’s armor after a firefight under Carolina’s orders… if he ever has to tell Grif that he still thinks about the moments before Grif splits off from the group, where Simmons can’t see that he’s alive… he resolves to tell Grif in a series of equations, somehow.

Identify. Prove. Simplify. Solve for unknown value of the funny lurch Simmons’s heart makes when he sees Grif makes it out of every firefight alive. For an unknown value along a standard bell curve, rescale the standard deviation of how much Simmons appreciates Grif being alive at all.

QED: Math is better than writing. In writing, you can’t be right. You can only tell the truth.

 

* * *

 

 

“Figures you’d get an extra bag for your boyfriend,” says Tucker grumpily, when he sees Grif holding two bags of popcorn. “Look at them, Church. Disgusting.”

Church doesn’t respond because nobody knows where Carolina is on this ship. Tucker realizes this half a second too late. “If you think I’m sharing these with anyone, I don’t know who you think I am,” says Grif. “These are _both_ for me.”

“Okay, okay, settle down,” says Wash, gesturing vaguely to their luggage bags scattered across a relatively uncrowded corner of what looks like a ship food court. (Of course it’s easiest to assemble a large number of people in a place with food.) Tucker is entertaining Caboose with what looks like a Bop-It; Simmons sits on a luggage bag; Sarge is still half asleep and goes to lie down on another bench with some muttering about shoulder joints; Grif collapses on the floor. Carolina is nowhere to be found, as usual.

Wash says, “This is a big ship, lots of other passengers, we have to be _considerate_ to other people here—”

“Are you my goddamn mother,” says Sarge.

Wash’s stare is unimpressed. “Fine. I trust you’ll all behave yourselves, then. Due to saving costs, we’re doubling up on rooms. I’ve already signed you up with the ship’s crew.”

“What?” Tucker says. “We don’t get to pick? Who made you the boss?”

“I became the boss when you all couldn’t order a pizza without arguing over it for four hours and then breaking the landline,” Wash says.

“Tucker did it,” says Caboose.

Wash clears his throat. “The roommate assignments are—”

“Can I be with Church,” says Caboose.

“No, because Church is with Carolina,” says Wash.

“Can I be with Carolina then,” says Caboose.

“She needs her space,” says Wash, eventually. “You’re with Tucker, Caboose.”

“ _What?_ ” Tucker complains, as if this was not an obvious and inevitable conclusion.

“Sarge and I will share a room,” says Wash, determinedly. “Lopez can be packed away, we don’t need a bed for him, so he stays with Sarge. Grif and Simmons are roommates, of course.”

Tucker waggles his eyebrows. “Roommates. Of course. _Roommates._ Spicy.”

“Oh my god, they’re roommates,” Caboose says.

“Tucker,” Wash warns.

Sarge lifts a finger. “Aha! But as expected from your allegiance to Blue Team, you’re incorrect in your roommate pairings!”

“You can’t be incorrect for roommate pairings,” says Wash flatly.

“You can’t put Grif and Simmons together,” says Sarge.

“Wait,” says Simmons, figuring out where Sarge is going with this, just as Grif says, “Sarge, hang on—”

“No! This is awful! A true crisis inflicted upon us by the Blues! Another scheme to inflict pain and violence upon our team members in the most subtle ways! We have to clear this up immediately—”

“Sarge _shut up_ —” Grif hisses.

Sarge announces: “What kind of dastardly, heartless, cruel, manipulative son of a bitch would pair together ex-boyfriends in a room like that!”

“WHAT,” Tucker hollers at the top of his lungs.

“What’s _wrong_ with you, Agent Washington?!” Sarge continues. “Putting together people who used to date in a closed space like that for the entirety of this trip, where obviously Grif will be left to ruminate in the wreckage of his failed love life as he pines after the femme fatale who got away, which is technically Simmons but then again Grif can’t be expected to have standards—”

“They... broke up?” Wash asks.

“THEY DATED?!” Tucker wails.

“SARGE SHUT THE FUCK UP RIGHT NOW,” Grif says.

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN THEY BROKE UP?! THEY WEREN’T EVEN DATING!”

“They’re… _not_ dating?” asks Wash.

Tucker rounds on Wash. “ _What_ ? Did you think they were dating the _whole time_?”

“I… But… Of course they’re dating, they’re so obviously…” Wash sputters. “Is this a test? Have you _seen_ them?”

“OH BOY it’s time for us to leave!” says Simmons loudly.

“Ah yes right definitely how about those room assignments,” Grif says.

“If you just give us the key,” Simmons wheedles, “we can go start putting away our stuff, get out of your hair…”

“Not until Agent Washingscrub fixes these room assignments!” Sarge says.

“It’ll be fine!” Grif cries. “Seriously! Us having dated once isn’t going to be an issue and both of us are over it! We’ve been on the same team ever since and nobody cared!”

“I don’t trust you! I _know_ you’re still harboring some old flame, and you’ll probably hopelessly propose to Simmons in the middle of the night and fuck everything up!” Sarge declares. “Grif and Simmons should be on opposite sides of the ship, have Lopez and Wash with Grif and Caboose with Simmons!”

“Sir,” Simmons begins, “that would leave you without a room; might I suggest...”

“Of course I’ll have a room,” says Sarge. “In this new and improved roommate plan, I get a spacious and luxurious four-bedroom suite all to mysel—”

“No,” says Wash.

Tucker grabs Simmons’s face. Simmons shrieks. “WHEN WAS THIS,” he demands. “DID YOU GO ON DATES. DID YOU BONE. DID YOU TOUCH HIS DICK. PLEASE TELL ME YOU HELD HANDS WHILE YOU SLEPT TOGETHER—”

“Oh! _That’s_ what we’re shouting about!” says Caboose. “Ah, yes, in that case, yes, Gruff and Simon slept together. I know so because I saw it.”

“Caboose saw you WHAT,” Tucker says.

Sarge claps his hands over Caboose ears. “Look what you two did!” Sarge yells at Grif. “You ruined him! Destroyed his innocence! The horror of it is imprinted on his questionable and failing memory!”

“We didn’t do anything!” Grif says angrily. “He’s misremembering! Or he’s remembering something else, fuck, I don’t know!”

“Is this about that time by the tree?” says Simmons.

“You fucked by a _tree_? Outdoors? Which one of you kinky fuckers suggested that?” Tucker says.

“No! We took a _nap_ by a tree!” says Simmons. He can feel his face heating up to that awful, unattractive shade of his own armor.

Tucker seems disappointed, which pisses Simmons off for some reason. “That’s it? Just a nap?”

“It wasn’t _just_ a nap!” says Simmons defensively. “Grif was tired so I told him to take a nap and he laid down and then I told him to put his head on my stomach so he could have a pillow and then we fell asleep listening to each other breathe and almost touching hands and also that was a long time ago before I broke up with Grif so obviously I’m entirely over it and never think about it in excruciating detail!”

There’s a silence. Vaguely, Wash’s face takes on an air of panic.

“I told the crew what the roommate pairings were already, and we’re not supposed to swap rooms or anything, but…” Wash scrubs a hand down his face. “Shit, I’m so sorry, if I’d known that you two obviously were still carrying torches with such unresolved issues, I…”

“What? Me? Have unresolved?? Feelings??? For Grif????” Simmons exclaims. “What. What are you talking about. I would never. I have no such thing. That’s—what—ridiculous—”

“ _S_ _immons shut up_ ,” Grif says. “Wash, just _give us the room key._ ”

“NO,” Sarge wails.

“Wait,” says Wash, “maybe I can talk to the crew about—”

Grif snatches the keycard out of Wash’s hands. “Okay great thanks see you later!"

And then Grif and Simmons grab their bags and dash off into the depths of the _Hand of Merope._


	55. Chalkboard Skitter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I’ve already marked my territory with barbecue sauce.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _"Eating disorders, in particular bulimia nervosa and anorexia nervosa have the highest mortality rates of all psychiatric disorders.  Cardiovascular complications contribute to a significant portion of this risk. The hearts of patients with eating disorders may be atrophied, most commonly due to reduced blood volume and negative energy balance. [...] Close monitoring is recommended due to an increased risk of arrhythmias, fast heart rates, congestive heart failure, and sudden cardiac death."_ -"Bulimia and Cardiovascular Risk: What does the research show?” from eatingdisorderhope dot com

The rooms are arranged as such: Carolina and Epsilon on the room to the farthest left, Wash and Sarge to their right, Grif and Simmons to _their_ right, and Caboose and Tucker to the farthest right, one after another, lined up along the side of the hallway. There’s no windows in Simmons's and Grif's room, but there is a tablet with a slideshow of junk like flowers and advertisements for restaurants. Simmons’s bed is along rightmost wall; Grif’s bed is along the leftmost wall; the far wall opposite the door to the hallway contains a sliding door to a bathroom, the first time either one of them wouldn’t have to use a communal bathroom in years, and it sort of pisses Simmons off, because it's the kind of private bathroom that Simmons knows he's going to abuse. 

The first thing Grif and Simmons do when they move into their tiny ship cabin, left of Sarge’s and right of Caboose’s, is unpack a dozen issues of National Geographic. They tie it up with a mangled wire from a busted Lopez model and slap a napkin signed “For Caboose” on the front, and then they dump it in front of Caboose’s door and skedaddle.

“Mission accomplished,” Grif announces, and shuts the door. "Nat Geo magazines successfully delivered to Caboose."

“Yeah, only an _entire year_ later,” Simmons says, and immediately stops dead in the middle of their room. Grif is stuck half in the doorway, unless he wants to push Simmons out of the way to get around him. “Ohhh, Grif, no, you don’t. No. Nope. Nuh-uh.”

Grif is trying to sidle around Simmons towards his bed, presumably where he can collapse. “What? Is this about the shoes thing?”

Simmons rounds on him and gesticulates at the two open suitcases in the middle of the room. “This! This shit! You just opened the suitcase in the _middle of the room_ , where people are supposed to be able to _walk_ , and now all your shit is everywhere!”

“I didn’t see you complaining when we were tearing them apart to find shitty giraffe magazines for Caboose.”

“That was a dire emergency. If we didn’t get those magazines out for Caboose then, we’d forget again, and then it’d never get off our hands. I’m talking about _you_ ,” Simmons says, pointing at Grif, “who is going to make me clean the clothes, by myself, because you’d rather leave our clothes on the floor like a wearable rug than clean it yourself.”

“Oh, wow, you know me so well,” says Grif, still trying to inch around Simmons. “So are you going to do it, or should we do the banter where I convince you to do my chores for me first?”

“This trip is _two-thirds_ of a year! That’s a really, _really_ long time to just leave your clothes on the floor and smell-check them for cleanliness!”

“So we’re doing the one where I convince you to do my chores for me, then,” says Grif.

Simmons opens his mouth to snap back, outraged, and Grif snickers. Simmons is abruptly aware that Grif has been trying to get past Simmons this whole time, which means that Grif is, perhaps, just inside Simmons’s personal space, and Simmons’s heart jolts and he immediately withdraws his own hands as close to himself as he can, like he’s afraid where they might go if he’d let them.

Grif slides right past him and beelines it for his bed like nothing happened. Simmons abruptly feels like smacking him. His heart doesn’t slow down.

“Really? _Really_ , Grif? You’re not even going to do the bit where you pretend to clean but really you’re just fiddling with your clothes and shoving them under the bed?” Simmons asks.

“Oh, you’re right,” says Grif, and plunges his hand into his own messy luggage bag and pulls out a stained maroon shirt. “Okay, I fiddled with it and now I’ve got the napping shirt. Need the napping shirt if I’m going to nap.”

“Is that—is the ‘napping shirt’ _my shirt_?”

“You forgot it at Valhalla. Finders keepers,” says Grif, and begins pulling off his hoodie.

And then his shirt.

And then his pants.

(Thank  _god_ Grif is wearing boxers underneath.)

And hell's bells Simmons fucking _hates_ this man, this fucking _douchebag_ changing into his pajamas like it’s nothing right in front of Simmons, so Simmons turns right around and starts shoving things into his suitcase as angrily and harshly as he can, because fucking _Grif_ , Simmons _swears_ that he’s a menace, a threat to Simmons’s health and happiness, and Simmons can’t say _anything_ because Simmons and Grif have shared a room before, have shared a room for _years_ , technically, back at Blood Gulch, and Simmons knows that Grif did and does sleep in less than a shirt and boxers, which is what he’s doing now, and Simmons has no right to complain about anything because Grif’s only getting changed and Simmons is trying to not be that weirdo who stares too long at other guys in the locker room, even if Simmons is already that weirdo who hates changing in front of other people and will use the private bathroom to change every single time, and basically in conclusion FUCK GRIF and fuck his shitty _napping shirt_ , too, that he just _took_ like it was _his_ to take, like he could even fit a shirt that Simmons wears without stretching it to hell and high water, it’s a waste of a good shirt and also Simmons will die if it’s too short to cover his whole stomach because then Simmons will just stare at the little strip of skin between Grif's shirt and boxers like a stupid pigeon bashing its head against the food dispenser and it’s times like this that Simmons comes face to face with the fact that he doesn’t necessarily hate seeing the little bit of belly fat that hangs over Grif’s boxers, but that he’s _envious_ , in some brainless twisted way, of the fact that Grif doesn’t seem to care all that much and it’s not a big deal and that for some reason no matter how much Simmons _knows_ nobody cares (theoretically) if someone has some chub, he can never bring himself to actually have some himself, could never forgive himself even when he thinks and _hopes_ that the shirt will be too short so Simmons _can_ stare at Grif’s stomach all day and think about how soft the skin might be there, think about running his hand up that shirt, just as a thought experiment, like a well-worn record to put in the CD-player right before you fall asleep, thinking about a time when he’s not stuck in a room with a person he’s dating but also not dating but also not not dating on a ship headed to a home that’s home but not home and not not home with a yet-unknown eating arena with unknown routines and unknown rules and unknown habits that he hasn’t even formed yet but he is incredibly, incredibly sure that they’re all going to be bad, and that he’s going to spend a significant portion of this trip with his head in a toilet while he thinks about Blood Gulch and the desert heat, like if he combines enough shitty experiences all into one memory then he can somehow wrap all the way back around to a positive, because that is definitely, absolutely, truly how math works. Simmons is a thirty years old. It’s been twenty-one years since he started purging.

“If nothing’s happening, then I’m napping,” says Grif, pulling the shirt over his head. “And also napping when things are happening, too. Wake me up for dinner, though.”

Lines of Grif and Simmons’s merged skin, paint on Grif’s chest smudged over, disappear under Simmons’s own shirt. The shirt’s a little tight, but it doesn’t show any stomach and Grif doesn’t seem to really notice. Grif doesn’t seem to notice anything, _ever_ , the blind, unperceptive dipshit.

“You need to get your own fucking shirt,” Simmons snaps.

“I’m pretty sure you don’t want this one anymore. I’ve already marked my territory with barbecue sauce.”

Simmons makes a disgusted noise.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. Seriously, don’t forget to wake me up for dinner. Night.”

Simmons sits on the bed. Crosses his arms. Grif rolls himself onto his bed and the shirt rides up on his stomach, and Simmons sees Grif’s eye flick towards him and away before Grif pulls the blankets over himself.

“Whatever,” says Simmons. Then: "...Night."

Grif doesn't say anything else. Simmons sits on his bed and fumes at stupid fucking Grif, who never shows a single fucking emotion on his damn face, and begins to wait, because there's really not that much else to do on this fucking ship. But it's fine. Waiting is fine. Simmons has spent most of his life waiting for terrible things to be over. Simmons knows, and Grif knows, that the magic of being Grif and Simmons is that whenever you think, “Oh, they absolutely can’t go on like this,” it turns out they definitely, totally can.

Simmons waits for the ship to arrive at Blood Gulch, for Grif to wake up, for dinner, for the purging to begin again.


	56. Assignment Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "That's what we mean by home."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the tag for this chapter is: “depictions of bullying yourself over how you should eat."
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  _Normal eaters generally adhere to six simple steps:_  
>  _They eat when they are hungry._  
>  _They eat what will satisfy them._  
>  _They stop eating when full._  
>  _They face feelings directly rather than detouring them through over or under eating._  
>  _They express their emotions directly rather than stuffing down on food._  
>  _They don’t beat themselves up if they overeat, undereat, or gain a couple of pounds but rather take it in stride as the normal ebb and flow of life._  
>  Recovery Warriors, “What Is Normal Eating And How Do You Get It?”

Tucker slams on the room door. “HEY EX-LOVEBIRDS,” Tucker hollers through the wall. “COME TO DINNER!”

Simmons peeks out from behind his tablet. Grif groans. “ _Please_ tell me he won’t call us that for the whole trip,” Grif mumbles.

“It could be worse,” says Simmons.

“You’re just saying that because this is _your_ fault.”

“How is this _my_ fault?!” Simmons protests.

Grif rolls over and shoots him a glare from over his blankets. “It was _your_ idea, dumbshit!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” says Simmons.

“Like that time you said we should fake date to prove we’re straight—”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“—or that other time you said we should get married and run away from Rat’s Nest—”

“That’s out of context and you know it!”

“Jesus,” says Grif, rolling himself and his sizable stomach out of bed. “Okay, whatever, fake-boyfriend.”

Simmons abruptly has to turn away and bury his face in organizing his barely-unpacked toiletries. Not that he’s going to be using them anytime soon, he just, y’know, has to do something right now. Immediately. Preferably something that requires him not looking at Grif.

“You coming to dinner?” Grif asks.

The one time Grif can be out the door faster than Simmons is for food, of course. Simmons hesitates, and even that, he knows, gives him away. Grif doesn’t look away, just stands there and waits for an answer in a way he never does about anything else, like Grif can see right through him.

Simmons _hates_ that. One day, Grif’s going to actually see him for what he’s worth, and then… well.

“Yeah. Fine,” he says brusquely. “I’ll come.”

Grif just pulls on a hoodie without a word.

 

* * *

 

 

“Dinner” on this giant transport ship is a food court: a giant atrium full of passengers milling about and different food vendors selling anything from burgers to sushi to salads to entire twenty-inch pizzas. Of course the ship ticket didn’t come with in-flight meals. They go out and get their dinners and come back to a rendez-vous point.

Sarge is a no-show, apparently sleeping right through the event. (Old man got tired, apparently.) Lopez doesn’t eat food. It’s Simmons, Grif, Tucker, Caboose, and Wash, although Caboose and Wash could be considered a singular unit. Wash doesn’t let go of Caboose all evening, like the instant Wash lets go of his forearm, Caboose will immediately run headlong into the nearest vat of cooking oil. (He might.)

They sit down. Simmons surveys their trays like they’ve brought loaded weapons to a Mexican standoff:

Wash has a burger with guacamole and a side salad, and is in the process of removing the bun. Caboose has a grilled cheese and fries with an ungodly amount of ketchup and a side of broccoli that Wash probably made him get. Tucker bought a single large soda for dinner and slurps loudly whenever Wash tells him that’s not a real dinner. Grif has a pizza bagel, a panini, a large slice of meat-lovers pizza, a soda, and a large sundae, which means that he has two pizza courses and two sandwiches between his three entrees.

Simmons gets black coffee with two shots of espresso. It’s nearly ten at night. He didn’t think of his battle plan for what he’s going to eat and how he’s going to stop fucking this up and inevitably slide into his shitty habits, and he’s not going to go pick a fight with food right now. He’ll eat later. He swears. He just needs to be better prepared so he doesn’t mess up.

“When is Church coming?” Caboose asks.

Wash hesitates in the process of throwing away his hamburger bun. Then he chucks it in the trash, with a _very_ even and measured movement that, for some reason, makes Simmons think of him raising his gun, visor trained on Donut. Then Agent Washington sits back down, knocks his salad fork into his own water glass, and gives Tucker a flat look when Tucker snorts into his soda.

“I don’t know, Caboose,” says Wash.

“Should we wait for him?” Caboose asks.

Grif, Simmons, and Tucker look back at Wash.

“Let’s just eat and see what happens,” says Wash.

Tucker snorts again. Rolls his eyes. Puts his soda down hard and props his feet up on (Church’s) empty chair and glowers off into the distance. Wash clears his throat. “Not to change the subject,” Wash says, “but where, uh, are we going?”

“Weren’t you the one who got the tickets?” Simmons asks.

“Sure, I got tickets to some coordinates, but…”

“Oh, great,” Grif mutters.

“Oho, _dude_ , you’ve been arranging this whole trip and you didn’t even know where we’re _going_?” Tucker says. “Seriously?”

“You said you were going home and nothing else,” Wash says defensively. “And you were really intent on it, so…”

“Yeah, but you just came with us, no questions asked!”

Wash doesn’t seem very ruffled by this. “Have I missed something here? I was under the impression you all met at your first station. Were you living together before you became simtroopers?”

Grif chokes on his pizza bagel in laughter. Simmons smacks him on the back so he doesn’t choke and die. “Hell, no. If I’d had to live with any of these guys before, I’d’ve shot myself,” says Tucker.

Simmons opens his mouth to tell Tucker to pick a different phrase that didn’t include dying, but he has no idea how to word it in a way that doesn’t immediately out himself as a sensitive pansy, so he doesn’t say anything. He glances at Grif. Grif doesn’t seem to have noticed Tucker said anything at all in favor of folding his pizza in half like a sandwich and putting so much in his mouth that Simmons wonders if he’s just straight-up deepthroating it. Grif is still an amalgamation of the worst eating habits of all time, of course.

“Naw, we’re going back to our first station. That's what we mean by home,” says Tucker. “Blood Gulch Outpost Alpha.”

“Outpost _One_ , for some of us,” says Simmons.

“Suck it, Red, Alpha base is better and bigger.”

“Hey chicka bum bum,” says Caboose.

“Stop filling in my entendres, Caboose, it gives me hives.”

Wash chews through his hamburger patty slowly, thinking about whatever ex-villainous Freelancers think about. Watching Wash eat is one of the things Simmons hates most about Wash, because Wash is one of those people who chews slowly, but not so slowly that it’s suspicious; he enjoys his food; he eats when he’s hungry and he stops _exactly_ when he’s full, like it’s no big deal. And he does it _every time._  And he _never_ messes it up.

Between Tucker and his soda dinner, and Caboose’s massive muscles and tiny kiddie meal, and Wash’s clean-eating, tastefully-arranged, no-sweat methods of eating well and simultaneously not giving a genuine second thought towards what he eats at all, Simmons sometimes feels like he’s in the twilight zone around Blue Team.

Grif is smearing ice cream on the crusts of his panini. At least Grif has the courtesy to be familiar in his atrocious eating habits. But even then, Simmons catches Grif eyeing his coffee, and then eyeing Tucker’s soda dinner, trying to judge what’s odd and what’s not, and Simmons takes a bitter sip and scrunches his nose.

“Blood Gulch Outpost Alpha is that box canyon, isn’t it,” says Wash thoughtfully.

“Ugh,” says Grif, and takes a long drink of his own soda.

Simmons smacks him again. “Don’t say that!”

“What? It’s true! We’re all thinking it! First thing that comes to your mind when you think of Blood Gulch, Simmons, really, be honest.”

The first thing that comes to mind is the bathroom and how there wasn’t a single-stalled bathroom anywhere in the whole damn canyon. A lot of staring at the toilet, wondering if he could get away with purging when the whole base echoed like a tin can. But regardless of the garbage in his head that happens before, during, or after a meal, the one thing he might be more scared of than anything in the world is other people finding out about him purging, so he’d never, so to speak, pulled the trigger.

The second thing that comes to mind is Sarge holding a shotgun over the dinner table, demanding that Grif not take seconds and yes Simmons had to finish his plate and no Donut couldn’t re-stir-fry the MRE in olive oil and crushed pink Himalayan rock salt, and Simmons’s thought was that Maudsley never worked, not in the way that therapists thought it should. And it hadn’t. Big surprise. Parents never manage to force their kids into what they want in the end.

The third thing he remembers is being bored and staring up at the sun that never set and _wishing_ the Blues would come to shoot him, or that he could find some food to throw up, just to have something to do and be away from here for a little while. Then he thinks about how Grif got crushed by a tank and he’d been weirdly relieved that at least _something_ had happened, and how all the blood on the walls hadn’t bothered him at all, back then. He’s very sure that the blood hadn’t been quite so bright red when he’d seen it the first time, red like on fresh snow, but the base walls had been dull concrete. He doesn’t know why it looks that way in his memory now.

“Ugh,” says Simmons, eventually.

Grif points at Simmons. “See? See? Blood Gulch is an actual shithole, guys. _Ugh_ is exactly the right word for it.”

Wash looks at Tucker, who shrugs. “Yeah, I’m not arguing with that, dude. It was pretty ugh.”

“Okay, hold up,” says Wash. “Does _anyone_ actually want to go back to Blood Gulch?”

Tucker looks at Grif, who looks at Simmons, who looks at Caboose, who visibly tunes back into the conversation at just that moment and blinks. “What? What’re we talking about? Is Church here?”

Simmons sighs.

“...No,” says Wash. “Not yet. I guess.”

“When is Church coming?”

“I don’t know,” says Wash flatly. “Eat your broccoli, Caboose.”

Caboose doesn’t seem to mind this answer. Tucker polishes off his soda and crumples the paper cup. Simmons sips his coffee and watches Grif watching him drink coffee for dinner.


	57. Single Stands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He looks at the bathroom for a good, long while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _“Some problems can be solved with money. Some problems can be solved with time. Then there’s_ real _problems.”_ -Proverb of unknown origin

Simmons can’t live on coffee forever.

Contrary to popular suspicion, Simmons doesn’t _want_ to live on coffee. (It’s not fun, take it from him.) He’s keenly aware that time’s running out: he can only go so long before he cracks and eats something he’ll regret and then purges it; but on the flip side, just running in blind and eating whatever for dinner will probably lead him to eat something he’ll regret and then purge it.

By the time Grif and Simmons wind up walking back in their room, Grif’s fallen into complete silence while Simmons shirls coffee in the paper cup, like he can divine the solution to the situation out of bitter rehydrated bean pellets. Tea-reading is a thing, isn’t it? Magical voodoo living in your food, all the way from the earliest ages.

Simmons pulls out the room keys. Unlocks the door. Grif still doesn’t have much to say.

Inside, Grif dumps his hoodie, only to hear a knocking on the wall. “Oh, Caboose, c’mon, please don’t do this,” Grif says.

“It’s true!” Caboose’s muffled voice yells from the other side of the wall. “Gruff and Simon share a wall with us! Sharing is so much caring and now I can knock to talk to Gruff and Simon whenever I want!”

“I’m returning this wall to the wall store,” Grif says.

“No! Gruff! You’ll hurt its feelings!”

“Oh jesus, he better not do this the whole trip,” Simmons mutters. “This room is already tiny, with no windows—do we even have a trash can in here?”

“Uhhh, I think in the bathroom? Maybe?”

Simmons pokes his head into the bathroom. “Oh, huh. Yeah, we do.” A little tiny one, like in a hotel.

He tosses the coffee cup into the trash.

Looks around.

There’s a shower.

A sink.

A shower mat.

A toilet.

A lock on the door.

He looks at the bathroom for a good, long while.

The single-stalled bathrooms he’s come across in his life tend to _look_ different. From the junior high bathroom, third floor West building, to the high school bathroom, behind the squash courts, to the college bathroom, in the basement, to the Rat’s Nest bathroom, behind the armory—they’re all _technically_ different. They’re nothing alike to anyone else. But they feel the same to him, even now that he can picture them.

Single stalled bathrooms are not places you leave. They’re places you go away from for little moments of fantasy, before you have to come back to your _real_ life, which involves staring at the inside of a toilet bowl for an hour.

And this bathroom? He knows if he ran the shower and got the fluids levels right, Grif would never know. Or would never have to hear, at any rate—

“Don’t you _dare_ break this wall down, Caboose,” Grif warns through the wall, while Caboose chatters on about something Simmons can’t parse out. And it hits Simmons all at once:

He would give _anything_ to not have to purge again.

He never wants to do that again. He’s tired. He’s sick of it. He wants to be done, honestly and truly. He wants to relax with Grif and not worry about what he’s eating and worry about Caboose asking about Church, instead; he wants to do _literally anything else_ with his life than looking at the toilet bowl in the back of this room on the _Hand of Merope_. He _wants_ that. Everything’s been fucked up since Grif left on his stupid road trip a billion years ago at Valhalla and it’s just getting crazier by the day, but at least it wasn’t being stuck in a _stupid fucking bathroom_.

Simmons closes the door. Goes back to the main room. Lies himself on his bed.

“Simmons, tell Caboose to stop eavesdropping on everything we do through the wall, it’s freaking me out,” Grif complains.

“Caboose, go away! Grif and I are having special best friend time!” Simmons shouts.

“Oh!” Caboose says. “Sorry! I didn’t know! Okay I will go away goodbye sorry for interrupting!”

Grif gives him a suspicious look. “‘Special best friend time’? ...What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t fucking know, Caboose is the one who’s hung up on best friends,” says Simmons.

Grif thinks about that. “Yeah, that’s true. That’s entirely fair.” Grif pulls off his hoodie and dumps it on the floor, and Simmons lets him do it, because he’s sharing a room with Grif and it’s kind of great and it’s be even greater if he didn’t fuck up this trip by winding up down the rabbit hole again, in a really annoying way, so he swears up and down, cross his heart and hope to die, etching this promise into this moment where Grif cracks his back and rubs his eyes across the room, that this time, _for sure_ , he’s going to get this right.

He’s not going to let this happen again.

He’s going to stop purging.


	58. Rat's Maze

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Black, of course, and caffeinated as hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _[The eating disorder voices] continued to fight in my head. I couldn’t remember a time they weren’t there. I was so used to it; the battle in my brain. Sometimes I thought I was crazy. If people only knew how my mind was continuously busy, thinking, rationalizing my thinking and behavior, wondering, doubting, believing, I believed they would question my sanity. The problem was—I was quite sane, quite together, and theatrically normal to keep my secrets hidden._ -Melissa F. Brown, _Stories of Recovery: THE VOICES I HEARD_ , Eating Disorders Resource Catalogue
> 
> -
> 
> this chapter has a lot of depictions of simmons's particularly disordered behaviors/patterns in an attempt to figure out what his baseline is and what he's working with. it also has a lot of depictions of particular patterns of disordered thinking that, if you've been around the ED recovery circle, you'll see are... destructive. 
> 
> but destructive of the insidious sort. the sort that you might not think are destructive, if you're not being careful. so read with caution, as per usual. and read knowing that literally everything simmons thinks here is some flavor of bullshit, as is fairly par for the course of the last 100k of this story.
> 
> for more thoughts/warnings/analysis on depictions of EDs in this story, see this tumblr post: http://hylian-reptile.tumblr.com/post/173914318961

Simmons starts off his new resolution to not purge by immediately purging.

But he can explain.

See, it starts with breakfast, which nobody from the Reds and Blues wakes up to eat except for Sarge. Simmons goes out to go find something suitable to eat with him, since breakfast used to be a thing he ate at Blood Gulch (even if he hated it), but it turns out that Sarge has MREs packed away in Lopez’s… ass… and all of a sudden Simmons is _not_ in the mood for breakfast. One, because Lopez’s ass; two, MREs taste boring; three, Simmons has _always_ hated MREs for all the weird starch and sugar and preservatives in there; four, Simmons usually ends up hungrier and hangrier after eating an MRE than before, and he doesn’t know why. So he goes out to the food court, and comes back with coffee.

Black, of course, and caffeinated as hell.

He spends the morning researching the benefits of breakfast using the ship’s wifi, and trying to decide if he should eat it or not. He’s read all these articles and studies before--the one that claims rats developed metabolic syndrome on a diet of only dinner in comparison to a diet of only breakfast; the one that claims humans were only meant to eat at night; the one that emphasizes waking the mtabolism up after sleep; the one that encourages staying in a fasted state. Nobody agrees. He knew this.

Ten o’clock hits, and he repeats this process with the concept of mid-morning snacks--or even afternoon, or evening, or midnight snacks. What’s the benefits? What are the drawbacks? Some people say hunger is good, a healthy stress upon the body in the same vein of exercise when applied in mild (MILD) doses; others say that frequent feeding at regular, steady intervals staves off the sort of hunger that primes overeating and later purging. At some point, Simmons begins to wish he could live on Ensure, and never have to bother with eating ever again, and this would solve the whole damn argument, wouldn’t it?

By now; By now, he hasn’t eaten in too long, and he’s beginning to fantasize about something salty and rich. It feels like he’s thirsty, but water does nothing. He’s running out of time.

Grif wakes up at eleven in the morning and Simmons is knee-deep in figuring out guidelines. He knows he can’t count calories without losing his shit; he hasn’t weighed himself voluntarily since Basic and hasn’t weighed himself involuntarily since Rat’s Nest, and by god he’s not starting again, that junk was horrible last time. But he also knows that just eating whatever you want is bullshit and a scam--right? right?--so he’s got to find some middle ground--honestly, whoever heard of doing something as fucking stupid as eating what you want whenever you get hungry?

Grif rolls over in bed and immediately begins to pirate old TV shows for the long trip to Blood Gulch. He eats a zebra cake for breakfast at one PM and wahshes it down with some unidentified soda that he badgers Simmons into buying for him at the vending machine down the hall. Meanwhile, Simmons wonders about the effect of artificial sweeteners from diet soda on insulin and blood sugar, and abstains from buying a diet coke for himself.

Simmons sucks it up and goes with Sarge and Caboose to get lunch. Caboose orders a peanut butter and marshmallow fluff sandwich. Sarge gets spaghetti and complains that the food court doesn’t serve red noodles. He puts sriracha on his spaghetti. Simmons is left adrift with nobody to emulate.

He orders exactly what Wash had the night before: hamburger, no bun, side of fries and a salad. He doesn’t remember the dressing, panics, and throws away the generic Caesar dressing. Then he throws away the fries, since he’s at it. And then the ketchup.

It’s around this time that Simmons realizes that he may have made some kind of mistake.

He spends all afternoon snappish at Caboose’s mild remarks and, when he stalks away from them, lurking through the _Hand of Merope’s_ general hallways alone, avoiding Grif’s texts and ignoring people in the halls. He’s convinced that if he goes back to the food court, he’ll fuck up and do something stupid out of a moment of weakness. He intended to avoid purging in the first place, and if he eats something he’ll regret--which he certainly will if he tries to make a food decision now--then the odds are that he’ll end up purging are almost a guarantee. He should have made a decision _before_ he got this hungry, _fuck_.

At some point, he makes his way down to the floor below the general food court and hallways full of cruise-liner bedrooms, and finds what looks like a rec center. They’ve got a whole bunch of activities that Simmons doesn’t care about because his brain immediately laser-focuses in on the gym, which he stares at for about an hour, thinking about how he’s not allowed to exercise when he hasn’t eaten anything and how he’s _also_ not allowed to exercise right after eating as a means of negating calories, because he went down both roads and neither were fun.

He’s antsy. He can’t stand still. He paces the whole hour he stares at the gym. Then he buys another cup of coffee with two shots of espresso.

Grif texts him about if he’s coming with to get dinner. The thought of sitting there at a table full of food while everyone has a good time is so awful that he immediately declines. Then he, almost on autopilot, for some reason he can’t explain, walks into the food court, orders some unknown quantity of food, eats the whole thing at a corner table by himself, goes back to Grif and Simmons’s room while Grif is out for dinner, and throws all of it up.

He’s not jittery after that. So that’s a plus, he supposes.

In the easy, smooth-sailing thinking of post-purge fog, Simmons goes over the day’s mistakes. Everything he’s done before, but enacted out in a new situation and environment. He didn’t go in with a plan. He didn’t go in prepared. He’s got to get his logic nailed down before tomorrow, come up with some sort of baseline called “healthy” and “normal,” and then fake it until he makes it.

And then, on the same mechanical autopilot that took him into the food court in the first place, he cleans out the bathroom toilet, takes a shower to try to reduce the swelling of his jaw and throat and the redness of his eyes, chugs a liter of water to replace his fluids, throws on new clothes, and crawls into bed to wait for Grif.

Tomorrow, he’s not going to fuck this up. Tomorrow, he’s going to get this right.

It’s the second day.

Ninety-eight days to Chorus remain.


	59. Prissy Simmons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nothing is wrong. Everything is fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _“[Vanessa Richard, a registered dietitian and nutritionist at Louisiana State University’s student health center], agrees that you should “be armed with resources to help [a person with an eating disorder] get to professional help on campus or in the community” and offer to accompany her, but warns that you should “be prepared for defensiveness or denial. [However,] doing something is better than doing nothing, even if your friendship is on the rocks.”_
> 
>  
> 
>  _With this in mind, Richard recommends that you first show your friend that you are there for her. “Your goal is to say, ‘I love you,’ ‘It hurts me to see you suffer’ and, ‘I’m here to support you and help you get the help you need,’” Richard says. “Sit down with [your friend] privately at a neutral time and share your concerns with [her].”_ -Iris Goldsztajn, HerCampus, ”What to Do When Your Friend Has an Eating Disorder”
> 
> -
> 
> i dont know how many times i have to keep warning for shit like this but simmons is supremely back on his bullshit and also said some nasty shit about gay men again so hold on to your pearls

What keeps Simmons up at night, staring at the ceiling, isn’t the feeling of Grif slipping out of his hands off the cliff of Sidewinder. What keeps him up is the fact that he’d had gloves on, and hadn’t been able to feel Grif slipping away at all. He’s understood Grif was falling out his fingers, as a conceptual event that he could see with his eyes and hear with his ears; but the feel of it, the _knowledge_ of it in his gut, hadn’t gotten through at all. His eyes could see Grif about to fall, but in his _hands_ , it was like the one connection he’d had to Grif was there one second, and the next he was gone.

It’s not right. You should be able to feel a person dying, press every moment into your skin, imprint every beat of their heart into yours for preservation, save everything you can for when they’re gone. Dying should be as slow as possible. Ideally, dying should be the length of a lifetime: the maximum amount of time to intertwine everything you can of yourself with someone you—

—Uh.

Was he talking about Grif? Actually, this is a hypothetical person that Simmons is referring to. Someone who’s, uh, cleaner. And more motivated. And less perceptive.

Simmons crumples up the packaging of his breakfast sandwich and drains the last of his coffee. It’s 6:30 AM, the barista looks even more tired that Simmons, and other passengers are beginning to filter into the hallway outside the cafe’s windows. Wash and Sarge are probably both up—Donut might be if the douche had bothered to come alone. The barista visibly pulls himself together at the sight of new customers, like he’s forgotten Simmons has been there for the last hour and a half.

Outside the cafe window, people drift through the _Hand of Merope’s_ hallways in twos and threes, mostly. Elder couples, sometimes young and energetic twenty-something couples, friends carrying to-go orders for other friends. Simmons scrubs at his face. Ugh, he’s gotta shave before he goes to bed.

Yeah, he’ll go to bed, skip breakfast and lunch. He didn’t stay up all night exercising at the twenty-four hour gym, and he also didn’t stay up all night snacking and immediately purging it, so he’s going to count today’s all-nighter as a… win? Yes, it’s a win. He stayed up all night researching the benefits and drawbacks of carbohydrates, but it’s fine, it’s okay, restaurants and food outlets aren’t open at night so he wouldn’t fuck up and eat something he wasn’t supposed to. He’s going to go back to his room, get rid of this breakfast sandwich while Grif is still sleeping, shave, and then go to bed.

Things could be worse, he reminds himself. It’s not bad if it could be worse.

 

* * *

 

 

Simmons wakes up at three in the afternoon to the sound of Grif turning off the shower.

He feels hungover. (That would be the loss of fluids, which Simmons is well aware of. Replacing fluids sometimes gets more convoluted than just drinking water, but maybe that’s just his brain overcomplicating things.) Really and truly, the thing he doesn’t want to deal with right now is a naked Grif; he doesn’t deserve having to deal with that the instant he wakes up. (He should probably drink water.)

But he remembered to shave, so it could be worse. Nothing is wrong. Everything is fine.

With effort, Simmons drags his tablet closer to check the time and finds his battle plan for today—he can’t remember what he’d decided for his plan of attack, didn’t even remember that he’d _made_ one.

The note winds up being a meal plan.

Okay, he remembers writing this. He’d had red, puffy eyes and gunk in his throat, sitting on the floor of the bathroom from fatigue after yesterday’s—no, this _morning’s_ purge, and he’d written up a meal plan and saved it as a text document titled:

_EATING FOR DUMMIES, IN WHICH THE DUMMY IS YOUR STUPID ASS WHO APPARENTLY CAN’T DO IT WITHOUT FUCKING IT UP_

—and then a detailed list of instructions that required an exact bedtime, wake-up time (which Simmons has overshot by nine hours), a precisely-regimented meal set-up down to the ounces served and plate served on and times to eat at and how long eating should take. Simmons had been inches away from detailing how many bites he should cut each meal up into, he remembers, and only held off because that required actually testing out the meal plan to see what was a reasonable number.

At the time, this idea seemed totally reasonable: obviously he hasn’t had any luck with half-assed guidelines or a general blanket recommendation to “stop throwing up, diptshit,” so the only option is to force it. _Make_ it happen, and leave nothing to change; the tiniest crack is the crack in which his own shitty habits will come through, inevitably, because “shitty habits” is just about shorthand for his entire self at this point.

On the other hand, this note looks like anorexia in disguise to his semi-better-rested eyes, and he’ll be fucked if he turns into some anorexic twink with glitter and visible ribs.

Furthermore, he thinks, with no small amount of irritation (and at only a minute after he woke up! He’s getting an early start on ruining his day, today)— _furthermore_ , you’d think that getting his shit together and stopping that whole purging nonsense would mean that he achieves eating like a normal person. This? Is not eating like a normal person. (Whatever “eating like a normal person” means. Theoretically this meal plan was supposed to define that, but it mostly seems neurotic. And when Simmons calls something neurotic, it’s _really_ neurotic.)

The bathroom door opens. Simmons's heart does a funny rhythm, like a few beats skipped. He locks the tablet and shoves it under the blankets and rolls over to face away.

“Dude, I know you’re awake,” says Grif.

Simmons wonders if he can ask if Grif has clothes on so he knows if it’s safe to turn around, or if that would be too telling. “Yeah, I’m up,” he says, and nothing else.

“What’s up with you? Don’t you have, like, software downloaded into your robot bits to wake you up at ass o’clock?”

There’s the sound of clothes, but not enough that Simmons suspects he’s getting dressed altogether. (Did Grif actually listen to him and put on clothes on the bathroom this time?) He’s not risking it. He’s told Grif _so_ many times to change somewhere else, but _no_ , Grif has a moral principle against giving a single fuck.

“I was up last night,” Simmons says shortly.

“Yeah? Doing what?”

“Something productive,” Simmons lies.

“Uh-huh,” says Grif’s voice. “If this was Rat’s Nest, I’d accuse you of having a secret boyfriend—”

“We’ve already done that joke!”

“—but by process of elimination, you’d have to be fucking Wash.”

Simmons makes a disgusted noise. Grif snorts.

“Let’s go get some grub, dude, I’m starving,” Grif says.

Without looking back over his shoulder, without a moment’s hesitation, Simmons says, “No, I’m not hungry.” He doesn’t even think about it. He’s not even sure if he _is_ hungry or not; it’s not a question he’s asked himself since junior high, at least not in any serious capacity. It’s a reflex.

“Yeah, but I eat all the time when I’m not hungry, who gives a fuck,” says Grif. Simmons tenses with a sudden wave of fury and jealousy. “It’s like three PM, you know nobody else from our group is going to be around to eat with me.”

“Get take-out, then.”

“Hey, good idea,” says Grif. “Thanks for enabling my disgusting slovenly ways, as I inevitably get a three-pound burrito with a side of nachos and leave crumbs all over the floor.”

“Grif, I swear to god if you do that, I will make you vacuum the place yourself—” Simmons begins, sitting up and twisting to face him, and he’s not sure what he expected to see, but it wasn’t Grif in a plain t-shirt, hands fiddling with a wallet full of credits, looking, somehow, guilty and rearranging the wallet like it might give him plausible deniability of his guilt.

“You’ll just end up vacuuming the place yourself,” he mutters, and in an even more faux-casual voice: “Should I like, pick up a salad for you or what?”

 _Just fucking say it_ , Simmons wants to hiss. _Get it over with. ‘Hey Simmons, why do you eat like a freak? What’s wrong with you?'_  Because if Grif would just do it, it’d be the end of Simmons altogether, but at least it’d be the end.

(No, Simmons, don’t be an asshole, he’s only trying to help.)

(He’d ruin the salad if he ordered it. He’d fuck it up, order some ingredient Simmons can’t eat or some sort of wrong dressing or get a portion size that’s too big or small or _something_. It certainly wouldn’t adhere to the plan Simmons wrote last night—this morning—if he’s still following that plan in the first place.)

(The fuck does Grif care, anyway? What part of fake dating did he not understand?)

“I’ll get a salad if I want a salad,” Simmons says tartly.

“Well, uh,” says Grif, still looking at his wallet, “what if you get hungry later…?”

For a second, there’s nothing but cold silence. Simmons’s eyes narrow. Grif glances at him and immediately looks away. The second stretches into a moment, into ages. Grif fidgets. Simmons seethes.

How _dare_ Grif treat him like some kind of _invalid._

Grif says, “Okay, well, you, uh, you do you. Whatever. I’m heading out.” And in a lower voice: “Forget it.”

Simmons is still sitting there, glaring, when Grif slides the room door shut.

Then Simmons deletes the meal plan.


	60. Old Houses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simmons doesn’t lose his temper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _“As a former drug addict, I went through this 'last hurrah' thing with heroin, coke, crack, and meth (numerous times each. I spent years 'getting it out of my system'.) You cannot cure an addiction by doing the thing you are addicted to. It takes a lot of work, and a lot of help and support.”_
> 
> -Reddit response by Chiliflake to a Reddit post by bulimia_throwaway, “I think my dieting has turned into bulimia. I don't know what to do.” (https://www.reddit.com/r/loseit/comments/28yk55/i_think_my_dieting_has_turned_into_bulimia_i_dont/)

The _Hand of Merope_ is a large ship, with large rec rooms full of TVs and games, food courts, a pool, viewing decks, sit-down restaurants, various secretive holding cargos, faculty rooms for technicians and staff members that passengers are restricted from entering. It reminds Simmons of a cruiseliner, except that Simmons has never been on a cruiseliner, so what would he really know about them?

Wash had predicted that the Reds and Blues would overrun the entire liner, possibly involving Caboose and some teamkilling event, and terrorize every passenger with their frat boy bullshit, and spent a good thirty minutes before the cruise lecturing them all about public safety and being respectful adults, as if the Reds and Blues aren’t all well past twenty-five years old at minimum, and as if Sarge himself wasn’t well past _fifty_ -five. He made it sound like _any_ contact between civilians and the human catastrophes known as the Reds and Blues would instantly cause combustion, or mass death, or the entire cruiseliner to rip in half and kill everyone on board and strand the Reds and Blues on a semi-abandoned planet with no way out.

The actual outcome is somehow even worse.

At the end of the hallway that contains all their rooms, there’s a tiny enclave with four armchairs and a vending machine and a coffee table. Someone brings down a bunch of other plastic chairs. They fight over who gets the armchairs and, when they discover that one of the chairs has an uneven leg, they fight over who gets the _pillows_ that went on the armchair. Sarge claims the table as Red property and starts yelling whenever any Blue puts their feet on it.

And then all the Reds and Blues just hang out there.

Constantly.

There’s a whole floor worth of rec rooms _just_ a five minute walk and a staircase away, with ping pong tables and foosball tables and human chessboards and bowling alleys and movie theatres and even a place to try curling, and Blue Team went up there a couple times to try it out, before Tucker declared it “boring” and came right back down and put his feet on Sarge’s table and Sarge tried to pull his shotgun out of his luggage and Wash yelled at Sarge for having brought an _entire shotgun_ onto a commercial space cruiseliner, what were you _thinking_ ? Meanwhile Caboose slurped on a smoothie and said he would like to sit on an armchair, now, please and thank you, he has spent his time waiting on the plastic chair patiently, and then they all played odd-man-out rock-paper-scissors for about twenty-minutes straight (“best out of a hundred and twenty-seven”) so they could determine who had to give up their chair for Caboose. Grif lost, and then claimed he was too lazy to get out of his chair and it was nothing against Caboose, he was just physically incapable of mustering up the energy to move, and Wash volunteered to give up his chair at the same time Sarge said Caboose could have _his_ chair, and then they had to go another a hundred and twenty-seven rounds of rock-paper-scissor to find out if Wash or Sarge got to give their chair to Caboose. Grif and Tucker took bets. Sarge won because he extended the game to a hundred and sixty-three, gave his chair to Caboose, and then kicked Grif out of _his_ chair to steal it anyway.

Tucker leaves so much trash in the hallway corner that nobody else who rooms in that hallway dares come near it, which means that it’s always available for the Reds and Blues specifically to use. This is the main reason that Simmons spends less and less time in the pseudo-Gulch corner: he's afraid he's going to eat a pizza slice Tucker left around, and then he'll have to eat five other slices because his brain says he has to, and then he'll have to spend half an hour choking it back up. 

“Absolutely fucking stupid,” says Grif once, at around one in the morning, munching through a taco on the floor, flipping through a magazine on “health and fitness,” for some ungodly reason. “The amount of bullshit in that they’re doing every single day when there’s like, a whole ship full of better things to do? Unbelievable.”

“Like I see you doing anything else but hanging out in that same corner,” says Simmons.

“Yeah, but that’s because that’s my _brand_ , Simmons. Sitting around, eating, sleeping, not coming out of my room for twenty-one days at a time. That’s my _thing_ . My _character staple_. The whole world would fall apart if I couldn’t be depended on to dig my heels in and be as un-fun and stupid as humanly possible.”

Sometimes Grif says things about himself that Simmons really wonders how to respond to, because his usual MO for the last however-many-years he’s known Grif has been to agree wholeheartedly, and then add in a few complaints for good measure. Nowadays, he thinks about soft snow under his hands and the empty grey skyline right after Grif fell over the edge, and that one moment when he wished he could have said something better than _Don’t let go_ , something that was maybe little more… truthful. (Simmons only seems to realize how truthful he isn’t when there aren’t any more opportunities to do anything about it. That’s normal, though, right?)

“Man, I can’t wait to get off this dumb ship,” says Grif.

“So we can hang out and do all the same annoying bullshit at Blood Gulch,” says Simmons.

“Yeah, exactly.”

“So we can do the same things we always do,” says Simmons.

“Yep.”

“The same things that drive us up the wall,” says Simmons.

“Mmhm.”

“And continue to do the same things that we wish we could quit,” says Simmons.

Grif licks his fingers and flips a page of his magazine. Glances up and then down, guilty. “You know it.”

Simmons crosses his arms. “Well, if we hate it that much, you’d think we wouldn’t go back to Blood Gulch. Or that we wouldn’t do the same things here on this ship! That we could go out and go to, I dunno, the movie theatre that’s literally a hundred yards away! We could go do something else!"

“That takes effort, though,” says Grif.

“Of course it takes effort!” Simmons cries. “Most things in life require effort, Grif! Anything worth _doing_ is rough and you have to do it anyway!”

“You sound like a self-help book,” says Grif, rolling his eyes. “What’s worth doing if everything’s just going to fall apart anyway?”

Simmons doesn’t lose his temper. He doesn’t get angry or pissed because it’s Grif and he doesn’t want to say things he doesn’t mean, which is why he snaps, “For fatasses like _you_ , maybe!” and bolts off his bed and this time _he_ leaves the room instead of Grif, to go out in the hallway at one in the morning, probably to find some food to inhale and throw up again.

He’ll solve this in the morning. He’ll do it right tomorrow. One last time, he promises, and then never again.

Seventeenth day. Eighty-three days to Chorus remain.


	61. Good Stories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "To a normal person I realize it just sounds insane, but [bulimia is] my excuse, my way of accepting the fact that I am here and I am alive. I do this in order to let myself exist." - _Bulimics on Bulimia_ , page 42

The oddest thing about it all is that by the twentieth day—

(Simmons misses Grif.)

Which is infuriating by itself because it's Grif, and it should be illegal to miss someone so lazy and fat and useless; it should be double illegal to miss someone that Simmons is literally rooming with; it should be triple illegal to miss someone even more now that they’re living in the same space because Simmons is supposed to dislike someone who’s sharing his space, it’s practically the guidebook that you start to dislike someone more when they’re sharing a room with you; it should piss Simmons off that Grif can’t pick up his clothes and leaves the toothpaste uncapped and wipes grease on his own laundry and never _does_ laundry, just dumps it in a laundry basket and waits for either Simmons or Wash to take it away and do his fucking chores for him like he’s a spoiled child; but the problem is that Simmons already knew that Grif was like that, has generally lived more or less in the same space as Grif for nearly ten years, now, and he’s picked up every little thing that Grif does, the way he licks his fingers like a gross heathen when he flips book pages or sometimes doesn’t wash his hair even when he takes a shower, the way he breathes heavily at random times, how he complains and complains about having to be clean but somehow, for some reason, he’d actually listened to what Simmons asked and took all the food out of the room. No crumbs, no leftover plates, no trash, he hasn’t even kept his weird little stash of food that Grif often kept under his bunk in Blood Gulch and Valhalla; Simmons threw all food out of the room on the second day and for some reason Grif actually kept the food out, for once in his life, which is only to Grif’s benefit, honestly, because the likelihood is that Simmons will steal Grif’s food and moreso than the rudeness, Simmons hates that he’ll go for so long without eating, not feeling _hungry_ per se but constantly thinking about food, about taste, wanting to chew gum, feeling thirsty when he’s already drank four liters of water, feeling restless and buzzy and foggy and irritable until he just blinks and whoops, someone else’s food is gone, like his body did a manual override on his brain and eliminated all thought until he’d inhaled _someone else’s_ food, and then he’s left with the aftermath having to explain why he stole someone else’s pizza (and cheese and bread are both _so_ hard to throw up, to boot). He knows that about himself and he used to sneak food from his roommate in college, who’d always bought pizza and takeout and bargain-bin pastries from the day-old section at the supermarket, and was one of those people who was comfortably overweight and thought about food not at all; his rooommate used to go fourteen hours straight without eating a bite and then suddenly remember that he had to eat, and then down an entire pizza by himself, and Simmons had to sit in his bed and _seethe_ because how _dare_ this douchebag eat without consequence and not care and not bother and not worry about it when there’s so many ways you can go wrong, so many swords hanging over your head; there’s nothing inherently wrong with pizza except for the fact that just the thought of it makes something in him fixate like it’s a gun pointed to his head, a pure fight or flight instinct that becomes normal on the battlefield later but was a regular occurrence at mealtimes ever since Simmons was eleven, can’t remember a time when mealtimes were safe, when they weren’t a struggle and a project and an ordeal to be prepped for and endured, white-knuckled through with everything he had and has, up until the point when he wanted to actually be something other than someone who fights with food and then suddenly everything falls apart and he’s skipping class every day, throwing up half a cup of broccoli because he can’t stand the way it stretches his stomach, he hates eating eggs because they actually make him feel less hungry and he’s not sure what he’d do without the feeling of desperate, desperate longing for something to eat; if he’s already full then why does he still feel bored and restless and wound up? The truth of the matter is that there’s nothing separating most other eaters from disordered eaters than the level of obsession; a person who forgets to eat and loses weight on accident is someone who doesn’t think about food; an eating disordered person thinks about nothing _but_ food; their whole life and and goal and purpose and worth revolves around food; it’s the reason they wake up in the morning, the reason they talk to you, the reason why they read books or go for walks or laugh or smile, because reading books passes the time until you can or can’t eat and going for walks burns calories and laughing and smiling is the methods of avoiding other people confronting what you did or didn’t eat so you can go even longer and stronger, every single dirty trick in the book at all times during the day, every single fiber of your being pinpointed to a single shining goal with the dedication of an athlete or religious zealot, with an insistence that this dedication is _yours_ up until the point that you realize that you can’t stop, that the thoughts are not yours, that they insist and insist and insist and insist until you break down and throw your food in the trash, go for a run, binge on a gallon of ice cream, throw it all up; insist and insist and insist because it doesn't really matter what you're doing with food as long as it's with food and nothing, no one else, like a bad boyfriend who doesn't care if the relationship is sour or sweet so long as you never leave; insist and insist and insist and insist to the extent that group therapy is a dangerous endeavor, that those who’ve lived with their eating disorders for ten, twenty, thirty, forty years say, with caution, to those who are still yet new to the eating disorder in their head that the thoughts never really go away, lest that they discourage these young rookies to the arena of mental health from continuing their lives altogether, which is easy to do both alive and dead; the purpose of obsession is nothing less but to flatten oneself, to be reduced to nothing but your purpose and your obsession, a reduction of self and thought, not for any fear or stress or control or magical pseudoscience psychotherapy nonsense but simply because it’s a habit, a ridiculous echo of one spring break when Simmons was nine and he came down with the flu, so severely and so seriously that he was reduced to eating nothing but clear broth for about twelve days straight, and by the end of it he was thin as a rail and _ravenously_ hungry, so hungry that when he was well enough to eat he downed a whole stack of pancakes and then then another plate of fries and when he was done his stomach hurt with the sheer volume of everything he’d packed into his nine-year-old body and _he was still hungry, and it was awful, because what if he felt this way forever,_ it was one of the most awful and terrible ideas he’d ever thought in his young life but he didn’t even know what it was because hunger tends to be that way, soft and insistent, quiet and unnoticed, never going away, and he couldn't even put words to it so he couldn't ask and nobody could simply just tell him "you're hungry just eat more" because so many people think of hunger as the emptiness of a your stomach, not the screeching of nails on the inside of your skull when your body desires to replace the fat stores that it's lost _._ Something in his head was screaming and he didn’t know how to make it stop, things hurt in a small little space in the back of his head that slowly but surely insisted _something here is wrong_ and the inside of his stomach hurt because he’d made the mistake of drinking orange juice to go with it, and if everything hurts and everything is wrong then maybe he can just get rid of it and he can be rid of what’s wrong with him with it. He didn’t often drink in college because he’d been warned about addiction; he’d never smoked pot, mostly because he’d never had any friends who did; he’d never done hard drugs because he knew that would kill him; he’d been warned about the usual suspects but nobody had warned him about food, nobody had warned that sometimes young boys and men wind up with eating disorders too; they’d said that eating disorders were for stupid girls who wanted to lose weight; they hadn’t said that after four days of starving, you won’t _want_ to eat; they hadn’t said that the thought of never purging again would make your heart shriek, that something in you will be insistent that you will die if you don’t purge _right this second_ ; they hadn’t said that everything in your head is loud and the answer is on your plate, your whole days down to your fork and knife, every moment of every day of every week of every month of every year down to how well you do or don’t eat. They’d said that your body would disintegrate, but anyone willing to go down that road wouldn’t care—that was normal-person talk, normal-person assumptions about how much you did or didn’t care about your physical self. Nobody willing to go down that road cares like a normal person about their body. A body is only worth anything if it’ll do what you tell it to—otherwise, there’s no reason not to throw it in the toilet, again and again and again. They should have led with: your mind will begin to die; that’s the reason Simmons first became afraid, that one day he realized that the essence of what he considered himself was beginning to erode, the little staples of what held him together rusting and falling away like a bad caricature of himself, all the little strengths he'd dredged up over the years of learning how to talk to other people and managing his time and writing down to-dos in his agenda got thrown out the fucking window because how well can you really focus when half your head is purged down the toilet and the other half of your head is thinking about the next time you'll have to purge? A therapist later asked in college where he learned that you can make yourself throw up with your fingers down your throat and he wasn’t sure, it felt like a knowledge that he’d been born with, that he came out of the womb knowing that you can excavate the wrong bits of your head out of your stomach and into the toilet if you used your fingers the right way, and the therapist wrote him down as having family issues and a childhood case of anxiety, which obviously wasn’t _wrong_ and Simmons wasn’t the person to deny having family issues and he wasn’t one to deny being nervous and anxious but what the fuck did that have to do with anything? He wanted to stop throwing up, he wanted to get his head out of the toilet, he wanted to stop spending a whole hour choking up every meal because his gag reflex was so fucked up that he couldn’t get anything up without torturing his poor epiglottis, nearly shoving his fingers down his windpipe just to make his body cooperate, and then again two hours later, and then again two hours after that, and then again an hour after that, before he threw in the towel and just went to sleep having gone to none of his college classes and done none of his homework and dreading all the emails and reports and books and coding that he had to do tomorrow that he had truly and surely meant to do today before all this fuckery had happened, and he doesn’t even know _why_ it happened; but surely, the therapist promised, if you unravel all the memories that you have of your childhood dinner table, then you will understand the root of all your emotional issues? You will understand the source of your anxiety and the source of your deep-seated trauma that fuels your eating disorder? You will understand why you choose to hurt yourself by self-soothing with food and then immediately depriving yourself of it? (But Simmons is sometimes convinced that the opposite is true, that eating is the self-harm and that the purging is the self-soothe; he never listens to what his body wants and needs so well as when he’s bent over the toilet, trying to make its digestive system work in reverse; he never hydrates so thoroughly as when after a purge; he never, otherwise, empties his brain so thoroughly of its worries and nerves; purging is, by far, the healthiest thing that he’s done for himself in a long, long time.) But back in those days, when he was beginning to try and put together some method of dealing with this stupid, stupid bad habit, he figured that it was worth a shot, and he dutifully followed his therapist's instructions and thought a lot about how his mother didn't notice anything so long as it didn't bother her and his father wouldn't hear anything Simmons had to say, they just argued argued argued all day long until his mother decided she'd had enough and divorced her husband in her heart and resolved to never speak to him again, and from then on it was Simmons's job to be quiet and stay put and cause no fuss, so as not to disturb both his parents' official retirement from parentage, despite the fact that they all still lived in the same house and despite the fact that Simmon was thirteen and terrified of middle school and just about most of everything and everyone else. Good, good, this is progress, said the therapist, but still did not tell Simmons how to just do the god damn thing that he wanted to do, which was to stop purging, and every time he asked, the therapist said that there were still emotional issues to resolve, every single emotional issue to resolve, which seemed like generally a whole lifetime of work considering that most human beings are Emotional Issues To Resolve; and it's in this way that Simmons did actually continue to diligently attempt recovery and therapy all the way up to the point that he flunked straight out of college, without telling his parents or a single friend, so that it came as a huge surprise to just about all of them when Simmons declared that he was leaving college to join the army, where Simmons hoped that perhaps the supremely regimented life of the military might strait-jacket his entire self into being less inherently abhorrent and a total trash-fire mess; that the high expectations and clear goals and obvious chain of command might be exactly what he needed to wring all this nonsense and bullshit and filth out of his human self by sheer brute force. He needed to be held together, like an open wound under the tight grip of a compression vest, except that, obviously, had worked out not at all, clearly, considering the whole simtrooper program and fake war and fake army and fake career. His parents didn't care and, with his father's continuing silence after the public fall of Project Freelancer, Simmons has decided that he doesn't care very much either, and that his mother is certainly allowed to drink herself into an early frosty grave if she'd like, and his father can die in his workaholic ditch too. Three separate human beings related by blood, not so much ships passing in the night so much as they were parallel lines combusting and disintegrating and caring not a single whit about each other (or at least now that Simmons has spent so much time away from them and has let out of sight become out of mind), and frankly Simmons is entirely okay with his dredged-up ability to tell his parents fuck you because he'd rather die than admit to being anything less than perfectly healthy and happy to either one of his parents, and with the rate that this eating disorder has fucked up his heart, he very well might. Is a beautiful soul-search for the source of your mental illness what you want to hear? That he had some sort of emotional sad story, that there was a narrative origin, that there's a story with a neat end to it? Stories are a series of little levers. Characters work one way, scenes work another way, reader's suspension of disbelief in yet another, and everything wrapped up in a two-act, three-act, six-act structure. Tied up neat. The girl confronts her tragic sexual history; the girl resolves her tragic flawed parents' marriage; the girl exorcises the ghost of her mental illness like a toxic friend; the girl tearfully admits that once a boyfriend called her fat and her biological, womanly need for validation has haunted her ever since, et cetera, et cetera. Pull the levers. Watch the conflict; be entertained. Walk away satisfied, when all the little levers have produced your happy ending. Expected. Controlled. Acceptable. It's all very... Freudian. A story told to concerned men in power, who wonder why their women are acting out of line. Is a story what you want to hear? It's what we could tell you, if you'd like. Sad emotions. A corrupted identity. A bad sense of body image. Oh no, I'm so _fat_ , and I think that way because Victoria's Secret models have a bad case of photoshop. Thank you, thank you, the scales have fallen from my eyes and I see the light! You _fucking_ idiot _._ I'll tell you how it happened. Once, a long time ago, at the young age of nine, Richard Simmons came down with a flu, became unreasonably hungry after eating very little through the duration of his illness, and thereafter avoided eating dinner. The psychoanalyst says he avoided it because his family wasn't there, that the feelings of loneliness were too raw to confront the dinner table; the other psychoanalyst says that he avoided the dinner table because his family _was_ there, and they were highly judgmental and terrifying; the psychiatrist says it was because of childhood anxiety disorder, manifesting after school when he had no other work to do; the geneticist says that there were pre-existing anxiety and eating disorders in the family, of course the dinner table is a battlefield, while the behaviorist says that pre-existing anxiety and eating disorders in the family behavior is an obviously learned behavior; the nutritionist says the meals were carb-heavy and nutritionless, prone to spiking insulin and stress close to bedtime; another says it's self-harm; another says it's a self-soothe; another says it's a ritual; another says it's an addiction; another says it's a method of control; another says it's a method of denying control; another says it's an attempt to bring the number of meals down to two; a safe and even number, a manifestation of number-connected OCD; another says it's an attempt to cling to childhood; another says it's a bid for adulthood and responsibility. A series of points, dots on a graph—you can make whatever story you'd like. Between that time, Richard's eating patterns go from orderly to disorderly. Unclear how many meals he has; unclear when he last ate; unclear what foods he prefers; unclear if he's hungry or full or tired or stressed; he doesn't purge at set times; he doesn't weigh himself at set times; he doesn't exercise at set times; within two years, every hours of the day is a Russian roulette—at three pm, he'll throw up a cup of milk; at four pm, he'll down three bags of chips; at five pm, he'll run himself to exhaustion; at six pm; he'll resolve to never eat anything again; for the next two days, he'll do exactly that; for the three days after that, he eats nothing but yogurt and soft foods, because he can't bear to chew anything for fear of being unable to stop eating, for fear of being unable to stop himself from purging it; the hour after that, his soft foods have turned to ice cream, and everything comes back up; he stares at his breakfast the next morning and salivates and counts every calorie, every carb, every fat gram to the decimal point and genuinely tries to eat a full plate of eggs and winds up eating nothing, the very idea of putting food in his mouth making him sick to his stomach; he could not explain the patterns he has if he tried; it goes on every hour of every day of every month of every year from the time he is nine to the time he is thirty-three. And that’s the _exciting_ bit, because as it turns out, the brief periods where he actually lost weight were even more boring: He woke up, he ate less than he should, he went to sleep and did it again. On those days, he didn’t think about his family or his grades or his friends or reading books or TV shows or science fiction or coding or math or literally anything. When he watched TV, or did his homework, or went to sleep, or texted a friend, everything was “not eating” or “eating.” There’s nothing complex about obsession. That’s the point of it. When presented with voids, one either grows new flesh and self, or shovels in anything else they can find. Movies, books, shopping, gambling, money, pills, words, applause, perfection, a rat race to feel less of how much you aren’t. His body was his temple, and he would not stand to let his temple collapse. If it must stand on a mountain of trash and hatred and ironclad obsession, it’s still better than collapse into the abyss; destruction is not the end, but the means to survival; he'll live, if only for a little while longer. Just a little while longer. Just a little while longer. Something is always better than nothing. Just a little while longer. In every school, in every state, on every planet, with every group of friends, at every stage of his life, stringing each tomorrow together with the trash of yesterday—and you want to make a _story_ out of it? Some sort of consistent narrative? What narrative could possibly, _possibly_ span so much of his life? where is the exposition? where is the rising action? where is the climax? where is the denouement? where? _where? where is the end of the story? when will the story end? when will the story end?_ No—sympathy for the devil will earn you no favors. Do not ask how the illness was born; it only matters how you kill it. And Simmons was so sure,  _so sure_ that if he just planned out his meals and micromanaged every aspect of his eating (obsession) to ensure that nothing would go wrong, that he would never fuck up again (obsession obsession) that this would be called recovery (obsession obsession obsession), that this would somehow lead him out of this fucking hole that he's found himself in, a hole he was trying to prevent himself from falling into and somehow wound up instead turbo-boosting himself directly into the darkest heart of it and he doesn't know where he went wrong, he doesn't understand why he can't cure an obsession with more obsession, or why he can't continue to live his life believing that there is something inherently wrong with him, from how much or how little he eats to the shows he watches to the clothes he wears to the way he smiles to the friends he makes to the major he chose to the college he attended reaching right down to some unchanging steel core of himself that was innately disgusting and inherently oozing, filthy, repulsive, a message that came from everywhere and nowhere, not from his Psychotherapeutic Relationship With His Dad or whatever the fuck but simply as a background radiation of every single action he's ever done in his entire life that's been met with a sneer or a stony silence; a constant subliminal rejection of everything he's ever liked or wanted, right down to his body and the other bodies that he sometimes thinks about when he's supposed to be jacking off to busty female women who are definitely not men. This belief of internal wrongness has only one other competitor in its strength and this is the belief that if Simmons tries hard enough, that if he does it right and does it like Sarge asks and eats a certain way and talks a certain way and makes certain friends then maybe, one day, he’ll be okay, that he can eradicate the things that are so wrong and ugly about himself, and he _must_ hold onto this belief because the alternative—to accept himself in all his human flaws and shortcomings and nonsensicality—is unthinkable; he could never forgive himself for being himself and could never fathom even the idea of it; he's punched in the fucking gut with the overwhelming conviction that he'd somehow done everything wrong, that _somehow_ there was a better way to be, one that wasn’t a mess and a disaster and a fuck-up, and the beginnings of the thought that he'd done it all wrong because _he_ was wrong, and one day he _will_ escape his own skin and become someone he can stand to look at in the mirror, someone that he wouldn’t mind going up to Grif and giving him a flirty smile and asking him if he’d like to go catch a movie sometime; except that that’s not who Simmons is, he knows that’s not who he is (and Grif probably wouldn't like him very much if that was who he was), and like most people Simmons wants to be seen as who he is, which he believes to be unexceptional, inconsequential, of no real specialty and certainly not worth having any real friends, which is fine because Grif isn’t his real friend and Grif isn’t even a decent person that anyone else would approve of, certainly not a boyfriend he could take home to his family and brag about with any modicum of pride or self-respect; every single one of the Blood Gulchers is nothing less than absolute fucking loser garbage and it’s where Simmons belongs, and to some extent he is quite happy in his useless, endless spiral of binge purge binge purge binge purge neither gaining nor losing and only slowing eroding from the inside out spending unending unceasing days in the dayless careerless useless Blood Gulch because it is truthful to who he is. Blood Gulch is where he belongs, where they all belong; Grif and Simmons deserve each other in the worst way; Grif can watch him die and die and Grif will do nothing, say nothing, just let him fall apart under his nose which is precisely how Simmons likes it, Simmons soaks up Grif's apathy and cynicism and inability to give a shit like a plant denied sunshine to the extent that Simmons wonders what it'd be like to be in Grif's head, to give not a singular shit about anyone or anything or himself, to have nothing worth fighting for and therefore nothing to lose, and Simmons hates that humans aren't magnets and that opposites don't attract because maybe they fucking should, and Simmons  _hates_ that because how dare people in this world not be as hyperfocused on the most insane and stupid bullshit as Simmons? How dare Grif throw all of Simmons's efforts in the trash, completely invalidate everything that Simmons has lost his health and sanity for, simply step sideways and escape the binary altogether? What is Simmons trying to do if not to pull himself out of his disgusting purging hole, to walk a highwire above the waiting filth that is himself, how  _dare_ Grif not give a singular shit about any of that and have it  _work out for him_? (Does it, though?) More than Simmons hates Grif's apathy working, Simmons hates that Grif protects his own skin like a yellow-bellied coward right up until the moment that the Meta shows up and it's time to hook a Warthog to the Meta's chest and drag him off a cliff, Simmons hates that now Simmons has to worry about Grif getting dragged off the ice, that Simmons can't even trust Grif to take care of himself and look after himself, which is just about the time that it punches Simmons in the chest that if there's one thing on this earth that Simmons really wants it's not to take care of Grif but to have Grif actually take care of  _himself_ , to be lazy and uncaring if he wants to be, not because he has to be, be lazy if and only if it's an act of kindness to yourself, and that at the very least he values his own life and doesn't go walking off into danger, doesn't get the dead look in his eyes sometimes and zone out of the conversation until Simmons nudges him back in. Simmons wakes up on the morning of the twentieth day thinking that Grif's died in the middle of the night somehow and that Simmons will have to divorce himself from being GrifandSimmons, the singular entity, and have to figure out who else to crack jokes with and who else to stand awkwardly with and who else to understand him and his shitty, nerdy sense of humor. The nights that Simmons thinks Grif has died are actually so much worse than the nights that Simmons feels his heart beat the worst sort of rhythm, all out of order and out of sync, two decades worth of purging and esophagus erosion and electrolyte loss making his cyborg heart stutter and stammer like a blushing virgin; he goes to sleep convinced that he won't wake up at all and that he'll have a heart attack in the middle of the night and Grif will have to see his dead body in the morning and he thinks of telling Grif that he shouldn't worry and he shouldn't panic and just tell him I did this to myself and it's been coming for a long time and it's mostly fine, except for all the things that Simmons figures he should have done with his life and also all the things that Simmons _actually_ wanted to do with his life, which was mostly write a really great DnD campaign to play with Caboose and also see if Grif's lips are as soft as they look, which is a pretty fucking sad list when he thinks about it but it's all he's really got when he cuts out all the nonsense that he was told that he was supposed to want; once twelve years of education and being told what to be and what to want is eliminated, all that's really left is Blood Gulch and a vague desire to stay with Red Team and a stronger desire to avoid going home at all costs, so he's going back to Blood Gulch where there's nothing to do and nowhere to go and no one to be and Blood Gulch exactly the sort of place for dead-end losers with no value and no passion in their lives whatsoever. And when he wakes up every morning and he hasn't died in his sleep, he has a feeling of waking up and leaving behind the alternate universe where he didn't wake up, that this other universe is so close that he can feel the heat cooling of his own dead body, lying in his own bed alongside him like an uncomfortable bedfellow, and as his lungs pump air and his heart pumps blood and as he pushes himself through the air thick and liquid with his own soupy corpse, he swears: never again. Never again is he going to purge. Never, ever again. (He usually lasts about eight hours after that.)  _Never purging again_  is lovely to say, a beautiful promise, three nice words that pale in the actual experience of what is required to love a person in their entirety, both yourself and another; to forgive a person in their entirety, unconditionally, both yourself and another. (More than anything in the world, more than Grif, more than Grif dying, Simmons hates that there has been and there will be no magical moment that will save Simmons from being himself or his purging; there’s only inability to forgive yourself and a series of bad habits. Simmons hates that once upon a time, there could have been a story to go along with Simmons's eating disorder, and like any good story, there would have been comedy, missing fathers, comedy, existential despair, comedy, too much alcohol, a healthy amount of voyeurism, identifiable reasons, cause and effect. Everything wrapped into a nice scientific bundle, if you just ignored all the data points you didn’t like. After all, cherry-picking isn’t bad science, it’s good storytelling! But that was a possibility of some time long ago—back in the good old days, when Simmons thought he could quit and that every person is only the sum of rationality. Back in the good old days, when Simmons still tried to believe truths about himself like some worn, old god. Back in the good old days, when he still believed the great creation myths of mental illness.)

Bad habits and good stories don’t make very good friends, but Simmons hates them less than he hates Grif. Love is a word. Words are the stuff of good stories.

(Simmons still misses Grif.)

Eighty days to Chorus remain. 


	62. Giant Baby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The twenty-first day is when everything actually gets worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SUMMARY OF IMPORTANT FINDINGS, Broussard (2005): 
> 
> \- Many [bulimics] thought their behaviours were “normal” or weren’t a big deal, but that they were afraid others would think otherwise.  
> \- Participants thought they were often perceived as being “gross,” “disgusting,” “sick,” “repulsive” or that there was something mentally “wrong” with them.  
> \- After vomiting, “rather than guilt, [many] actually felt “relief” or “good.” [...] The participants faced a huge internal struggle, and attempts to rationalize the irrational but overwhelming desire to binge and purge.
> 
> [...]
> 
> SUMMARY OF IMPORTANT FINDINGS, Pettersen et al. (2008):
> 
> \- Though often seen as being “manipulative,” patients are often just trying to preserve their dignity and concealing their bingeing and purging is a way to accomplish this.  
> \- Participants hid their behaviour for fear of shame, stigma, and negative sanctions  
> \- Individuals who were less ashamed of bingeing and purging, and did not put as much daily effort into hiding it “may be judged as better off” (because mentally it is less exhausting).
> 
> Severity of bulimia is then not only related to psychiatric status, frequency of symptoms, or objective somatic conditions. Severity is equally a question about emotional fragmentation between shame and dignity, as well as whether the distance between the overt and the covert hampers daily life functioning.
> 
> \- ["THE “DOUBLE LIFE” OF BULIMIA NERVOSA: PATIENTS’ PERSPECTIVES,"](https://www.scienceofeds.org/2012/12/24/the-double-life-of-bulimia-nervosa-patients-perspectives/) from the _excellent_ blog "The Science of EDs," written by Tetyana (really cannot recommend this article enough!)

The twenty-first day is when everything _actually_ gets worse.

 

* * *

 

 

Tucker stops Simmons in the hallway as Simmons slinks back to his room like a guilty child. “Where the hell have you been?” Tucker demands. “Caboose is crawling up the damn walls on this ship, and I’m _pretty_ sure that you were supposed to have custody of him last Wednesday.”

“Uhhhh,” says Simmons, who is not very sure when Wednesday was.

“Also—what are you wearing?” Tucker asks.

Simmons glances over his shoulder down the empty hallway. Sarge, Grif, and Wash are sitting around the Blood Gulch Corner at the end of the hallway, too far to be within earshot. Grif’s got his back turned. Simmons clears his throat.

“Gym clothes,” he says.

He’s got nothing to be ashamed of, he reminds himself; he’s done nothing wrong or unacceptable. Plenty of people go to the gym. Sometimes the people who go to the gym includes Simmons, and it’s not supposed to be unusual. Going to the gym is healthy.

“What the hell are you wearing gym clothes for?” Tucker says.

“For going to the gym,” Simmons replies testily.

“Ugh,” says Tucker. “The fuck is up with you weird overachieving vegan health nuts? Wash was saying that I should go to the gym the other day like it’s actually a thing I’m _supposed_ to do? Like I was supposed to have a training schedule or something?”

“Uh, yes? You’re supposed to?” says Simmons. “You’re... in the military?”

Tucker waves it away. “Church never made me train,” he says, and then hesitates. “Whatever,” he says, even though Simmons hadn’t said anything. “Seriously, dude, you’ve been like a ghost or something. It’s weirding me out.”

Simmons bristles. “Then don’t go looking for me in the first place,” he snaps. “Caboose is your team’s giant baby anyway.”

“Dude, really? Are you really going there? Are you seriously—”

“I’m gonna shower,” Simmons declares, and beats a hasty retreat to his and Grif’s room and closes the door behind him.

 

* * *

 

 

Grif’s things are not all over their shared room like Simmons would expect them to be.

Grif and Grif’s things are all over the Blood Gulch Corner—pizza boxes, sticky wrappers, weird books with no real rhyme or reason to them. Grif takes naps in the Blood Gulch Corner, imprinting his ass to one of the few chairs with cushions and snoring away at 8 AM, 12 PM, 4 PM, 10PM, any time of day unholy and unsacred. He gives not a single shit about schedule or structure.

Simmons’s and Grif’s room is closer to just Simmons’s room, then. And sometimes Grif sleeps in the other bed.

It’s a timeless, windowless place. There’s no CO’s telling him to get up or clean it, nobody to impress with his timeliness or cleanliness, like at Blood Gulch or Rat’s Nest. There’s no sun rising or setting at Valhalla. Grif’s helmet is set up in the corner displaying the time which, despite the passing numbers, still seems to tell Simmons nothing at all.

But he can’t come out until he’s got this shit under lock. He hates being at outings with other people and desperately needing to purge. He also hates being late to appointments because he had to purge. He’d rather get everything under control first, _then_ he’ll come out, and everything will be fine and better because he’s gone through the effort of recovering first—

“Simmons!” Sarge hollers through the door. “Quit being nasty to Caboose! You’re hurting his feelings! Specifically his and nobody else’s and definitely not mine, because I’ve surgically removed my amygdala and therefore feel nothing but the unceasing urge to kill all Blues!”

“You can’t draw a line down the middle of the room and expect me to never cross it!” Wash’s voice says. “The door to get out is on your side!”

“That’s the point! A cunning trap to force you under siege! Private Simmons, I command you to get out here and eradicate them with me!”

Simmons holds his breath.

“Simmons, I know you’re in there!” Sarge yells.

“He’s probably taking a nap,” says Grif’s voice. “Leave him alone.”

“Napping? Simmons would never do such a slovenly, disgusting show of hedonism!”

“I have seen proof with my own eyes that he takes naps,” Grif says flatly. “In fact, we took a nap together onc—”

“THIS IS A BREACH OF PRIVACY AND I REFUSE TO LISTEN TO YOUR DEPRAVED KINKS.”

Simmons slinks away to actually take a shower.

 

* * *

 

 

He spends four hours drawing up meal plans. He’s not giving in. He’s going to make recovery happen. He’s going to make it work.

Actually, he draws up a lot of different plans—various rules, foods to avoids, schedules, sleeping times—but all of them seem hollow and ridiculous. He thinks a bit about Grif asking once, a million years ago, _Why are we here?_ and the fact of the matter is that he can’t really find a good reason to go to sleep early and wake up early and to eat certain meals at certain times of day, except to be neurotic, which of course is Simmons’s specialty, except for the fact that his particular brand of neurotic once led him to count every singular calorie that went into his mouth for about two years straight and he doesn’t want to flirt with that devil again, thanks. He doesn’t even know why he’d done it anymore—maybe for the love of having numbers add up to a nice sum, but that doesn’t seem to be enough anymore. (He wonders what on earth he’s going to do with himself when he gets to Blood Gulch.)

The one solid reason he’s got under his belt is that he hates throwing up (and he hates exercising, too), and he’d like to stop doing it; but he’s also no idiot and he’s not going to stop purging if he keeps being unable to feed himself without ruining everything with trash and junk food. There’s got to be some kind of secret, he thinks, that enables everyone else to pull off the act of eating so effortlessly; and as soon as he finds it—

“Psst.”

Simmons looks up from his tablet. (It’s currently open to a series of studies on intermittent fasting.) He squints. In the windowless, solitary room, he’s forgotten to turn on the lights.

“Psst,” comes through the wall.

“Caboose, what are you doing,” Simmons says.

“I am getting your attention gently so as not to startle you,” says Caboose.

“Through the _wall_? Is that supposed to not startle me?”

“You didn’t answer the door,” says Caboose. “Psst.”

“I’m busy, Caboose.”

“Doing what?” asks Caboose. “Aren’t we on this very nice ship with lots of little machines and big windows to look at space?”

There _is_ nothing to do. It’s driving Simmons up the _wall._

Simmons groans and whines and glares down at the tablet, which now has a good sum of at least five hundred or so websites for fitness, diet, and nutrition logged on its history, and swears to god that Caboose _better_ not bring any food in here. “Use the door,” he tells Caboose, who cheers, and there’s a scrambling on the other side of the wall. Simmons, reluctantly, opens the door to let Caboose in.

The first thing Caboose does is turn on the light (ugh). The first thing Caboose has the nerve to say is: “Oh wow! You don’t look different at all!”

Story of Simmons’s life; nothing ever changes for better _or_ for worse. Still, though: “What d’you mean, ‘I don’t look different’?” Simmons asks suspiciously.

“Well!” says Caboose, and plops himself down on the floor. “So we heard the extremely sad story from Sarge about you becoming Official Best Friends with Griff but then you unfriended each other? Very loudly and sadly and there was a lot of crying and also Griff’s feelings got obliterated into the dirt if Griff, who is a walking bag of asbestos, which is a funny word that I think he was trying to say ‘as-besties’ or something. And then Agent Washingscrub paired you two together because he is a dumb Blue who doesn’t know anything about the Reds who are cool hooligans, unless us young Blue hooligans who don’t let Sarge watch Wheel of Fortune all day long, except _I_ do because _I_ like Wheel of Fortune so I don’t see—”

“Caboose,” Simmons interrupts.

“Yes! Right, yes, Pirate Captain Sarge is convinced that Grif is spending all his days crying onto your shoulder about he is single and ready to mingle and also something about pringles? And therefore this obviously means that Grif probably made a ring out of a ring-pop—mm, delicious—and proposed to you in the middle of the night, which made you two have a fight because Simon is an upstanding young man who would never catch asbestos-besties from Griff, and therefore Sarge is not worried that you are going to make Griff un-single and un-ready to mingle and pringle, but he does think that you two therefore had a _giant_ fight about it and therefore have stopped talking to each other, and this is why you and Griff are never in the same room and never look at each other and never talk to each other and never mention each other and never acknowledge each other and never respond to anyone else when we mention the other—”

“Wait,” says Simmons. “They think Grif and I had a _fight_?”

“No! Sergeant Sarge thinks that Grif proposed in the middle of the night and made everything awkward! I—you—gah! Simon! I _just_ explained this!”

“That’s ridiculous,” says Simmons hotly. “I’m perfectly fine—I mean we’re perfectly fine. Nothing happened!”

“Okay,” says Caboose.

“I’m serious! I talk to Grif all the time! More than I’d like, even!” Simmons says, super duper truthfully and not at all dishonestly.

“Okay,” says Caboose.

“And it’s none of their business what we’re doing! They can buzz off!”

“Okay,” says Caboose.

“Except that there’s nothing to buzz off about because there’s nothing happening between me and Grif!”

“Okay,” says Caboose. “Does this mean we can go talk to Griff now?”

“No,” Simmons snaps, and is relieved when all he gets in return for his ill temper is one of Caboose’s oblivious looks.

“Then can we go see Church?”

“No.”

Caboose thinks. “Then do you at least want to come play Go Fish with u—”

“ _No_ ,” Simmons says.

Caboose looks at him with a mixture of confusion, shock, and hurt. “Just—go find someone else. I’m busy,” says Simmons.

Caboose, at length, does so. Simmons holds his breath the whole way through, like if he moves, Caboose might see, just from looking at him, like how a cat can see ghosts in the corners of rooms, all the things wrong with him. 

 

* * *

 

  
_You don’t look different at all,_ he’d said.


	63. Verbal Garbage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Grif, stop brownnosing," Simmons interrupts. "That's _my_ job."

"Hey! Simmons!"

Simmons freezes on his way down the hallway. He's got a "grocery list" of allowed foods he's attempting for his meal plan; except his grocery store is the fucking food court of this cruiseliner full of fried and processed foods, and he'll have to go scour the good, viable options like a recon mission for a war. It's been twenty-three days on this ship, and although he suspects that some therapist will tell him that it's a positive sign that he hasn't immediately overanalyzed the nutritional value of every scrap of food on this ship the instant he got on it, he's also of the opinion that his alternative (to eat the junk food available and then throw it back up) didn't consist of Simmons having the time of his life and, in fact, was a load of garbage. (But he's getting better now. He's got a plan, he's getting better, he promises, he swears.)

"Simmons. There you are," says Wash, striding down the hall towards him, dragging  _Grif_ behind him. Oh fuck, shit, goddamn.

"Uhhhhh no sorry not interested in joining the dirty Blues," says Simmons, "not today, praise Red Team and have a nice day--"

Wash gives him a frown. Grif looks like he deeply does not want to be here, which makes two of them. "What? Why do you Reds always think that I'm here to recruit you? There  _are_ no Red and Blue teams, anyway."

"Sounds like the kind of thing a losing team would say," says Grif.

"Blue team,  _if_ there is a defined line between Blue and Red Team--if there is," Wash says, "Blue Team is winning by every possible metric--but I'm not debating this with you--"

"No, no, tell us about these metrics," says Grif. "Precisely what units are you using to measure your dick sizes? Millimeters? Nanometers?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Grif," Simmons scoffs. "Blue Team wouldn't measure their dicks when they could measure the amount of dramatic sad bullshit they can generate in a week."

"Tucker wins always all the time," says Grif. "He is in a constant state of mourning the Sahara Desert of his dry, dry love life."

"First of all," Wash begins.

"Caboose wins this week because he had to room with Tucker and put up with his Tuckerness," says Simmons.

"Absolutely correct. Agreed, seconded, confirmed," says Grif. "In comparison to having gotten an AI robo-sploded in your brain, labelled crazy, and then nearly murderered by your former teammates, Caboose having put up with Tucker's stupid fleshlight and sleeping naked is by far the higher tragedy."

Simmons and Grif look at Wash expectantly.

"Are you done," says Wash.

"Now that you ask, no," says Grif. "See, Red Team knows the  _real_ metric of having a cool team, which includes having a great color scheme, minimum one member with a Southern accent, lots of great food--"

"Grif, stop brownnosing," Simmons interrupts. "That's  _my_ job."

"Oh, sorry, ma'am, go right ahead."

"Right--Red Team is far superior because it contains more robots per teammate--"

"Considering the Alpha--" says Wash.

Grif makes a buzzer noise.

"Church is a ghost, actually," says Simmons.

"It's a scientific fact," says Grif. "Disqualify this evidence and strike it from the record."

"Disqualified and stricken," says Simmons. "Furthermore, Red Team contains no dead or dying members--"

"Thanks for nothing in Donut's case, by the way," says Grif.

"--and absolutely zero recorded instances of overdramatic, plot-relevant death scenes."

"Okay,  _for the record_ ," says Wash, "I  _saw_ you two when Grif got pulled over the edge at Sidewinder."

"I didn't die," says Grif.

"Also not plot-relevant," says Simmons.

"You said death  _scenes_ ," says Wash. "Not deaths  _themselves_. That thing on Sidewiner? Was a death scene."

"I--what? I didn't say--"

"You actually did," says Grif.

"Fuck," Simmons whispers, then: "Wait! No! I said  _overdramatic_ death scene! Nowhere in that scene was  _any_ dramatics, let alone  _over_ dramatics!"

"WHAT," says Wash. "I  _saw_ you! With my own two eyes! I  _saw_ you hold his hand and have some cheesy line about not letting go like you were in a romcom!"

"Dude, what romcoms end with one of them falling off a cliff?" Grif asks.

"Freelancer romcoms," says Simmons.

"I hate this conversation," says Wash.

"Oh, buddy, that makes three of us," says Grif. "You're the one who said I had to come with you or you'd let Caboose replace all my pixie stix with salt."

"No, listen," says Simmons. "Actually, a minimal amount of fucks were given about Grif dying. Definitely nobody froze and stared out at the ocean and had an existential crisis about all the things that we never manage to say during life due to a fear of intimacy and being known for your flaws."

"Yeah," says Grif and then, "Wait, what?"

"LOOK," says Wash. "Stop talking for ONE GODDAMN MINUTE."

"Red Team is also better at spouting metric fuckton of verbal garbage," says Grif immediately. 

"Suck our wordcount, Blues," says Simmons. 

"Please do not say that around Tucker, I don't need to listen to his stupid sound effect," says Grif.

"Yeah, that's fair," says Simmons.

"I am  _trying to apologize_ ," says Wash, "for having stuck you two together in the same room!"

Simmons glances at Grif. He only catches Grif looking away, too quickly to be casual. 

"What was that," says Wash.

"What was what?" says  Simmons.

"What was that whole... significant look," says Wash.

"Nothing," says Simmons.

"Wash looks at Grif. Grif looks at Simmons. Simmons looks at Grif. Grif looks at Wash.

"Yeah, no, dude," says Grif. "Everything's totally dandy."

"Oh god I'm so sorry," says Wash. "I'm very serious, Grif, Tucker said you wouldn't do anything stupid and Sarge said you would and, you know, he's Sarge, I didn't exactly expect him to be right--anyway, you can take my room if you need to--"

"And room with Sarge?" Grif says. "Fuck no, dude, I'd rather room with my no-homo dudebro pal who isn't not dating me."

"And also didn't not break up with him," Simmons adds.

"You're saying words and they make sense separately but somehow I understand none of them," says Wash. 

"Almost like you should mind your own fucking business," says Grif.

"Personal privacy: a revolutionary technique exclusive to Reds," says Simmons.

"And most decent fucking people in the fucking universe," says Grif. 

"I--"

"Cool, great talk, let's never do this again," says Grif, and slouches away back towards their room.

Wash watches him go, and in the settling dust, Simmons speeds away to the food court without hesitation.

 

* * *

 

 

Most of Simmons wants to just go back and keep talking to Grif. But he knows better.

Simmons has a job and responsibility to take care of, and he's got to do it alone.


	64. Two Way

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _In the past couple of months, I've lost several very, very good and trusted friends bc of how frustrated they became with my eating problems and refusal to "see reason" in their eyes. I've been angry and bitter about it for a while now, and was just wondering- for how many other people has this been a problem?_ \- forum thread ["How many friends have you lost because of your ED?"](http://www.myproana.com/index.php/topic/833226-how-many-friends-have-you-lost-because-of-your-ed/) original post by MPA user ricchan

"Somehow, I get the impression that they're doing just fine," Wash's voice tells Sarge through the wall.

"Simmons endures Grif's endless hankering for his fax-machine ass with bravery and manful silence," says Sarge.

"I hope to god you're joking about the fax machine."

Sarge cackles.

 

 

* * *

 

 

On the twenty-fourth day:

"Hey," says Grif, as they pass each other in the hallway.

Simmons clears his throat to get the post-purge phlegm out of his voice. "Hey," he says.

And that's all they say to each other for three days.


	65. Intervention Circumvention

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Nothing anyone in this room does to change anything actually ever fucking works."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"I've never known anyone with a legitimate ED who recovered after [in-patient]."_
> 
>  
> 
> -MPA thread [“What’s inpatient like?”](http://www.myproana.com/index.php/topic/374678-whats-inpatient-like/), response by MPA user ___No___
> 
> (for the record, in-patient has gotten a lot better as new understanding about EDs come to light!! a lot of them can be positive experiences. but take a look at this thread for a wide range of different experiences from different people who've been in and out of in-patient, some of them who'd intended to recover, and others who were forced into IP before they were ready to commit to recovery.)

On the thirtieth day, Simmons sneaks out of the room at two in the morning to find some industrial-strength soap to get the vomit stains off the toilet. He pokes his head out of the doorway. The hallway is empty. The Blood Gulch Corner is unoccupied, the chairs askew and littered with trash. The hallway lights are dim, but not off. Grif is nowhere in sight. Coast is clear.

He takes three steps into the hallway, Caboose’s giant hand grabs him by the shirt and pulls him clear off his feet, and Simmons shrieks as Caboose’s bedroom door slams behind him.

 

* * *

 

 

“This,” Tucker declares, “is an intervention.”

Simmons squints in the glare of the single lightbulb. He’s sitting in a metal chair in a dark room, side by side with Grif, surrounded by just about everyone crammed into Caboose’s and Tucker’s bedroom, sans Carolina and Lopez. The room lights are off. Caboose is swinging a lone lightbulb from the ceiling with what looks like a fishing pole.

“Am I doing this right,” Caboose asks.

“Having the single lightbulb is for an _interrogation_ , you dumbfucks,” Grif says lazily.

“Yeah, that thing!” says Tucker.

“You said this was an _intervention_.”

“Yeah, that thing!”

“That’s not the same fucking thing, Tucker!”

“Can I turn the lights back on,” says Wash.

“Don’t you _dare_ , Washington,” Sarge growls. “I will throw your glowstick in the _trash_ if you do!”

“Glowsticks are not for an intervention _or_ an interrogation,” says Wash, sounding like his soul has recently vacated his body to dissociate on the astral plane where Lopez’s sense of humor resides.

“Jot that down, Simmons!” says Sarge. “The Blues suffer a weakness in the integrity of their glowstick usage that seriously jeopardizes the integrity of their interrogation techniques! We can win the war this wa—”

“There is no war,” says Wash in the same monotone.

“Do _I_ get a glowstick,” says Grif.

“No glowsticks for the interrogatees!”

“Intervention,” Caboose says.

“The interventees, then!”

“You brought glowsticks?” Tucker says. “Damn, hit me up with one of those!”

“No glowsticks for Blues!”

Simmons squints. “That just means that the only people left in this room who aren’t interventees and aren’t Blues are... yourself and Caboose.”

“Absolutely correct, Private Simmons!” Sarge snaps three glowsticks in quick succession and hands them all off to Caboose.

“Ooh, pixie stix,” says Caboose, takes them, drops the lightbulb, which shatters and plunges the room into darkness. “Tucker did it.”

Wash flicks on the lights. Everyone groans in the sudden light. “DON’T YOU DARE,” Sarge hollers.

“You have to share your glowsticks, then! We can’t hold an interrogation with—”

“Intervention,” Caboose says.

“--yes, okay, we can’t hold an intervention with all the lights off!”

Sarge grumbles and mumbles and rumbles.

“Sarge,” says Wash sternly, and holds out his hand for the glowsticks.

“Fine!” Sarge wails, clutching his glowsticks like an old woman clutching her pearls. “Turn on the light, then! You awful Blues with your awful interrogation techniques! Put a man to shame!”

The lights come on. Simmons winces in the light. He can’t tell if it’s better or worse to see all the Blood Gulchers standing around him and Grif, like they’re cornered animals facing down a firing squad.

“Okay, okay,” says Tucker. “Where were we?”

“This is an intervention,” says Grif dully.

“Fuck yeah it is! Let’s get right back to it—”

“I’m pretty sure it never started,” says Grif.

“Shut up, Red. Simmons,” says Tucker, and looks right at him. “You know what this is about.”

Simmons nearly has a panic attack on the spot.

Simmons is a thirty year old man who most certainly does not have an eating disorder. But if he _did_ have an eating disorder, and if that eating disorder had started when he was, oh, say, nine or so--which is of course just a random number that has no relation to Simmons whatsoever, it’s definitely not the age he started purging or anything--but if he _had_ an eating disorder that had started that young, he would be very, very aware of a wonderful and fun experience called in-patient treatment.

In-patient is one thing when you’ve checked yourself in, though. That’s a decision a person makes to surrender themselves to the help, care, and consultation of others, knowing that they are no longer able to help themselves. It’s a reaching out. An acceptance.

It’s entirely another when you’re forced.

It’s not the patient’s choice. They haven’t yet said the words, _yes, I have an eating disorder, and yes, I want to stop what it’s done to my life_ \--usually the sentence looks more like _yes, I have an eating disorder, and I think it’s made my life better in every way._ They’re still in the honeymoon phase. They still believe that the only people who say a person is too skinny are the people who have a few pounds to lose themselves. The disorder hasn’t yet begun to devour them back. Hasn’t yet begun to make them cold and sunken and bored and lonely, paranoid and obsessive and watching their grades slip and their social life disintegrate, exhausted and exhausted and exhausted and exhausted but really, truly, mostly bored.

Still--some people think it’s a badge of honor to have been forced by their parents into in-patient. For whatever reason, in-patient treatment is the holy grail of Validation: _I was so Officially Sick that they strapped me to a bed, put a tube down my throat, and pumped three-thousand calories straight into my stomach._ It is the point at which a person is declared an Emergency with a capital E, the goal that so many dumbass girls on the internet strive to achieve. Emergency room bands are worn with pride around bony wrists. You are, of course, only forced into in-patient treatment when bony and wasted. Bulimics never make the cut. And then they pump you full of food and fat and sugar until you’re considered weight restored and “recovered,” at which point you’re no longer a sickly, fascinating, skeletal spectacle for others to cringe and goggle at, which means that nobody cares about you anymore, and you’re booted from in-patient to, usually, immediately vow to lose all that weight all over again and return to in-patient.

Simmons, as a teenager, used to tear off the calorie counts on Ensure packages and down them like shots, quick and fast before his courage failed him. He couldn’t purge _all_ the calories in liquids. He was losing too much weight. He needed to keep down something. He’d run for hours afterwards, trying to burn the calories off from some wild, nervous compulsion, but he didn’t lose more weight. He had some nightmares about in-patient feeding tubes, and some about nurses forcing him to eat strange foods; but far and away, he had the most nightmares about some doctor looking him in the eyes and saying, _There is something wrong with you_ , and having it be unavoidably, irrevocably true.

A person can only be forced into in-patient treatment below the age of eighteen. Simmons knows that. He hasn’t been eligible to be forced into an in-patient program for twelve years. And there’s no reason why he would be worried in the first place, because men don’t get eating disorders, and bulimics at normal weights don’t get treatment, and Simmons isn’t bulimic anyway.

Still, though. Simmons grew older than eighteen, but he never grew out of being afraid of being.

“There’s nothing wrong,” Simmons croaks.

“Bullshit!” says Tucker, scowling. “You _know_ there’s something wrong. You just don’t want to admit it!”

“Let’s be fair,” says Grif. “That applies to about ninety-percent of our lives.”

“Yeah, well! This time, we’re fucking fixing it! I can’t stand this shit!”

“I said there’s nothing wrong!” says Simmons. Even he can’t tell if his voice is shaking from anger or fear.

“The fuck you always skulking off by yourself for, then?” says Tucker. “Going off by your lonesome, hanging out at the gym? You never hang out with us anymore!”

“I just--want to be alone,” says Simmons, desperately.

Grif scuffs his feet on the floor and looks away. “Lay off him, Tucker. Geez.”

“You too! You’re complicit in this!”

“I’m not _complicit_ ,” Grif snaps. Snarls, even. Tucker takes a step back. Grif has a terrible, disgusted look on his face that Simmons has never seen--inferred, maybe, through body language and covered by a helmet, but never on his actual face. “I’m fucking aware I shouldn’t stick my nose in other people’s problems. Or solve them for other people, either.”

“Yeah, sure, if it’s just _your_ problem,” says Tucker. “But you two are fucking oozing your stupid unresolved sexual tension and marriage problems—”

Simmons chokes. Grif makes a wheezing noise like he's been punched in the gut. "Wait, okay," says Grif. "What the fuck are you talking about--"

“You heard me!” says Tucker. “That’s what this intervention is for! You two, ruining everyone else’s lives, by being so loudly and obnoxiously gay all the god damn time! You’re _making_ it my problem!”

“Oh. Oh!” says Simmons, wheezing. Holy _shit,_ he feels so relieved. “ _That’s_ what this is about!”

“Yes, you asshole, _that’s_ what this is about. You still carrying a torch and probably a semi-boner for Grif, is what this is about. The fuck did you think this was about?”

Simmons glances at Grif, whose eyes are flat and narrowed.

“And obviously this is a Simmons problem, which is why I started with him—”

“Excuse you,” says Sarge.

“Here we go,” Wash mutters.

“As per usual, the Blues don’t understand the inner intricacies of our incredible teamwork, held together by my masterful and careful leadership,” Sarge announces. “Anyone can see that this is a Grif problem! It’s Grif who’s still carrying a torch for Simmons! And in fact, because Grif is a useless son of a bitch who cannot be expected to improve or grow or change in any meaningful way past his inherent state of repulsiveness—”

“Thanks,” says Grif, without expression.

“--it’s not that Grif having a torch for Simmons is the problem, it’s that Grif did something about it! And I know that Grif did something about it because Simmons _also_ knows that Grif is a useless son of a bitch who cannot be expected to improve or grow or change in any meaningful way past his inherent state of repulsiveness. Therefore, the conclusion is that something terrible has happened! And that I have predicted the future! Grif really did propose in the middle of the night—”

“Nothing happened,” says Wash. “Both of you are overreacting. They’re both fine.”

“I thought we were interventioning because we miss Simmons,” says Caboose.

“We’re interventioning because Grif proposed,” Sarge says.

“We’re interventioning because Simmons is hopelessly in love!” Tucker cries.

“We’re interventioning because we all make bad life decisions and also have nothing better to do,” says Wash.

There’s a pause.

“Do you guys,” says Grif, “ _not know_ what you’re holding an intervention for?”

“No,” says Tucker, just as Sarge says “Yes,” just as _Wash_ says, “Oh goddammit.”

“Jesus christ,” says Simmons, and stands up.

“Wait! No!” says Caboose. “We haven’t even done the interventioning yet!”

“There’s nothing to intervention about,” Simmons snaps. “Everything is fine. Mind your own business.”

“Like an intervention would even help,” Grif scoffs.

Something about that pings Simmons the wrong way. He gives Grif a hard, vicious stare. “Excuse you?”

“It’s true,” says Grif. “Nothing anyone in this room does to change anything actually ever fucking works. The fact that they’re trying isn’t just stupid, it’s hypocritical—”

“ _Excuse you_?” Tucker says.

“You’re on a ship to fucking _Blood Gulch_ ,” Grif says, looking at Tucker like he’s stupid. “Tucker, we _hate_ that place. Everyone hates that place. And yet here we are, on a one-way liner to the shittiest place in the universe because we can’t even think of anywhere else to be. If you think that _our_ relationship’s needing an intervention, I got some news for you about what literally every single one of us is doing on this ship.”

“Leave Blood Gulch out of this,” says Tucker. “I didn’t see _you_ objecting when we got onboard.”

“Yeah? It’s against my policy to expend energy helping lost cases. Against my policy to expend energy, period.”

“And because it’s a ‘lost case’,” says Simmons scathingly, “you’re just going to lie down and let it happen, are you?”

“I sure the fuck am,” says Grif.

“Fucking typical—” says Simmons.

“--and,” Grif interrupts, “ _I’m_ not telling other people how to live their lives. Y’all wanna fuck yourself over? Go ahead. Be my guest. I’m not jumping in after some dumbshits determined to drown.”

“The fuck is—” Tucker begins, just as Simmons says, louder and nastier, “The _fuck_ is your problem, Grif?”

“Nothing,” says Grif. “I have zero problems. What’s _your_ problem?”

“Wh—” says Wash.

“I _also_ have zero problems,” says Simmons.

“Great,” says Grif, with a mocking ring to his voice that Simmons hasn’t heard since the first year of Blood Gulch. “Just great. Good to know. Nobody has any problems and everything is fine, and we all love Blood Gulch, and there’s no reason to have an intervention.”

“But if there _was_ a problem, I’d try and fucking _fix it_.”

“Um,” says Caboose.

“The hell do you have against admitting you fucked up?” Grif asks. “We’re on a shitty ship to a shitty place, if we just called it what it was—”

“I fucked up?” Simmons echoes, seething. “ _I_ fucked up?”

Grif holds up his hands. Stands up. “Oh, fucking hell. Never mind. I’m out.”

Sarge begins, “Sit back—”

“Shut up,” says Grif, without an ounce of humor. “I am _not_ having this conversation. I’m keeping my nose firmly in my own beeswax, I’m _not_ getting involved, and I’m _not_ solving anyone else’s problems for them only for them, because _newsflash, assholes_ , trying to stage a stupid—” Grif shoves the chair away with a metal screech “--corny-ass intervention doesn’t solve anything. Nothing solves anything. Leave me the fuck alone.” And Grif strolls out like he owns the damn place.

“Yeah?! Well, good!” Simmons yells after him. “Because there’s nothing wrong, and also I’m responsible adult who tries to actually fix my own shit!”

As the door slides shut, Simmons sees him turn left--not in the direction of their bedroom. It’s still three in the morning. Simmons has no idea where Grif intends to sleep for the night. Simmons stands up himself, furious.

"Simmons--" Sarge begins.

"Shut up," Simmons echoes without thinking, slams the door button to reopen the door, and walks out himself.

“WOULD SOMEONE EXPLAIN TO ME WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON,” Tucker says, as the door closes behind him.


	66. Drama Central

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“To love an addict is to run out of tears.”_  
>  -Sandy Swensen, author of The Joey Song: a Mother’s Story of Her Son’s Addiction

And just like that, Grif and Simmons are Officially Fighting.

Except they're not fighting. Because there's nothing to be fighting about. Because eating disorders are not Simmons's problem, and therefore Grif has nothing to be exasperated by.

Kind of like how they're not dating. They're fake dating. In secret. While also not speaking to each other, because of a fight they're not having.

It's very high level logic. Simmons wouldn't expect you to understand.

"All those words make sense apart but I don't understand them together," says Caboose.

They're sitting in the Blood Gulch Corner, while the rest of them have gone out to lunch by themselves. Simmons was lucky to snag Caboose alone, and that Caboose is so easily bribed with unhealthy carbs, and is also too stupid to notice if Simmons drinks water between every bite of fried rice and fidgets through the whole meal. 

"That's fine," says Simmons. "Words don't mean anything anyway. Numbers are much more reliable. There's a reason why so many sciences reduce everything to numbers! They mean the same thing to everyone. It's an equalizer. They don't lie to you."

"Numbers lie to me all the time," says Caboose. "Sometimes something is only five when it's actually five tons, and that's somehow supposed to be heavy? And sometimes it looks like a 'vi' or a 'mid' and those are words but also numbers?"

"Those are Roman numerals, Caboose, they're just different ways of writing numbers. They're all the same values."

"Ah, yeah, I don't really understand that," says Caboose. "What value?"

"Well, if I have, like, the number five, I can say something like I have five apples, or five fingers, or five thousand problems with Grif. Just, like, hypothetically. Random example."

"Yes, see, that doesn't tell me anything," Caboose complains. "You said you have five million problems with Gruf, but that doesn't tell me what the problems  _are_?"

"That's not the point of numbers! They just tell you _how many_ , not  _what_."

"So it doesn't tell me anything about your five billion problems with Gruf," says Caboose flatly.

"It tells you how many," Simmons repeats.

"So it doesn't tell me anything about your five trillion problems with Gruf," says Caboose, even more flatly.

Simmons groans loudly. "Oh, never mind, Caboose--I don't even know why I'm talking to you about this."

"Me neither!" says Caboose. "I didn't even know you were talking to people! You went away for a whole month and barely talked to me at all! Like you went on a vacation without telling anyone and it was a secret vacation all by yourself without anyone else! Which seems a little pointless, because if you go on vacation alone, who are you going to have the beach episode with? Oh! Are you talking to me because your vacation is over?"

Simmons looks at the pair of fried rice cartons that he and Caboose had just split for lunch. Fried rice was always easy to get back up. "No," says Simmons, and dumps both cartons in the trash irritably. He can never win, with food. Something is always wrong. He always ruins it. And when something is wrong, even if there's nothing wrong, you can bet your ass that Simmons is going to spend the next three weeks fixating on it, unless he purges it or exercises it away. He's being forward thinking. He's actually doing his future self a favor, see?  _You'll feel better if you just get it over with_ , he tells himself, when he's locked away in the single-stalled bathroom and staring the toilet down, wanting to be anywhere but this fucking bathroom.  _Just get it over with and fix it tomorrow_. And tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow.

"Caboose! There you are!" Sarge's voice hollers, followed by the rest of Sarge banging up the hallway. Simmons wonders when someone normal who rented a cabin on this floor is going to file a noise complaint about them. Then Sarge takes one look at Simmons and says, "Caboose is loitering with the other half of Drama Central, I see! To be expected from Caboose's regrettably Blue upbringing; so tragically attracted to dramatic sons of bitches you can't keep his girlfriend problems out of everyone else's perfectly-coiffed Red-Team-regulation hair."

" _Excuse_ me?" says Simmons. "Hold on-- _what_ is Drama Central?"

"You are, numbnuts!" Sarge declares. "Well, the lesser half of it. The greater half is--ugh-- _Grif_. Won't shut up about his burning unrequited supergay manlust for you! Keeps saying heartbroken pining nonsense like 'Fuck Simmons' and 'What do I care' and 'that guy can fuck off'. I'm in a Jane Austen novel because of you! Can't go three seconds anymore without Grif doing something soppily romantic, like glaring at me every time I mention your name and refusing to speak about you! A goshdarn disgrace, both of you! A real inconvenience to everyone! Some of us have emotions to repress, have you ever thought of that?"

"Wh--excuse you, sir, but I repress my emotions like everyone else!" Simmons cries. 

"I don't?" Caboose says.

"That's alright, Caboose, we forgive you," says Sarge. And then back to Simmons: "Goddammit, Simmons. Do you know whose fault this is?"

Simmons suddenly has a visceral flashback to the moment he'd left Caboose's room yesterday, not thinking, hearing his own voice telling  _Sarge_ , of all people, to  _shut up_. He'd fucking  _said_ that. The fact of it makes his teeth hurt. His throat hurts. His chest hurts. (That last one is probably stomach acid eating his esophagus due to constant induced vomiting, though. Whoops.)

"Um," says Simmons. He knows, in theory, the words he wants to say, and has said them before ("I'm sorry, sir, won't happen again, sir!"). But thinking about it for too long makes something shriek with shame, so it's better to just not think about it. "Um, Sarge--"

"IT'S GRIF," Sarge hollers. "EVERYTHING IS GRIF'S FAULT, ALWAYS. I could never, of course, blame you for dumping Grif back in Valhalla, because dating Grif is terrible, dreadful, awful, appalling, horrific, horrifying, horrible, horrendous, atrocious, abominable, deplorable, egregious, abhorrent, frightful, hideous, ghastly, grim, dire, unspeakable, gruesome, monstrous, sickening, heinous, _vile_ fate I wouldn't bestow upon my worst enemy--" Sarge sniffs loudly "--and I'll respect your decision even though you  _know_ how much I want grandkids--!"

"WHAT," Simmons says. "I--you--SARGE?? NO??? I DIDN'T KNOW????? And--and Grif and I are both men, so I don't understand h-how that would h-h-happen in the first place??? Even if we were dating?????"

"It's all Grif's fault, as usual," says Sarge, wiping away a manly tear that looks suspiciously like motor oil. Simmons has a suddenly flashback to Sarge loudly proclaiming that he'd replaced all his tear ducts with gasoline and the blood of his enemies. "Grif's ruining everything! You might be one half of Drama Central, but obviously I understand--all you've done is stand there with your incredibly flat white cyborg ass and somehow bewitch Grif's animalistic desires! You were an innocent victim in this! Grif's the one causing a ruckus! And there is definitely, absolutely nothing that you've done to possibly contribute to the current situation whatsoever, and we were wrong to have nabbed you for that intervention, because obviously you didn't deserve it at all!"

Simmons locks up.  _Say you're sorry for what you said yesterday_ , says one half of Simmons.

"Right, Private?" says Sarge, looking blandly incurious about Simmons's actual response. And it's precisely that disinterest that makes Simmons, not for the first time, have the compulsion to tell Sarge everything, because he thinks that Sarge might just not respond at all but still hear. But this time isn't like the other times he's wanted to infodump on Sarge; it isn't the vague ideation of getting his secrets off his chest while simultaneously knowing he never will; this time it's a clear checklist of exactly how it would go down: one, admit; two; endure excruciating humiliation of having admitted to being "sick"; three, realize Sarge does not and cannot understand; four, realize Sarge will not and cannot help; five, suffer the everlasting consequences of having Sarge weirdly eyeball everything Simmons eats from there on out. How is he supposed to think talking to anyone else about this is worth that? He'll confess when he's fucking dead. Take him back to Rat's Nest and that singular moment right before the firing squad raised their guns, when Simmons had had the stupid thought of saying  _Hey Grif I love you_ \--as a joke, of course--just so he could do the first step of admitting without having to suffer any of the disaster that followed. Naturally, by now he's lost his nerve. But if he can't admit, then he should say sorry, at a bare minimum. He's got to say sorry, at the  _very least_ \--

"Right," says Simmons. "Everything is Grif's fault."

"Darn straight," says Sarge. "Come back and get your Drama Central uncentralized, Private! And Caboose! Washingscrub is breaking out in hives without you! Come back before he hyperventilates." 

“Ah, yes, please do not let Washington turn into a beehive.”

”I’ll be there,” says Simmons, for the first time in weeks. “Just give me a second.”

He’ll be more relaxed when he’s thrown up the rice, anyway. 


	67. Stereo Telephone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The instant Simmons comes into view, Grif makes eye contact with him, stands up, and leaves the food court.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The truth will set you free, but first it will piss you off." -Joe Klass, Twelve Steps to Freedom

Gag reflex is overused. He's abused it too much, too frequently. He's a little surprised it actually held out this long.

"Overused" doesn't mean he can't make himself purge if he tries hard enough, though. It just takes a lot of coaxing, like starting a skittish car. And also around an hour and a half of his day. And also an unceasing fear of binge cycles and eating without strict and unreasonable dietary guidelines twenty-four-seven and ceases only for the forty minutes directly after he's purged, but, like, y'know. Whatever.

Simmons washes his hands in the sink, slowly, with the punch-drunk movements of the post-purge haze. He spits in the sink. Too much phlegm in his throat. Spits again. Pats his face as he cleans his skin with freezing cold water, to reduce the chipmunk cheeks, and cleans out the underside of his nails for the skin he accidentally scraped from his epiglottis.

When he looks up, color catches his eye. He leans in to the bathroom mirror. Scowls. Lifts the eyelid of his right eye, the organic eye, revealing the little red dot of blood cells that had burst in the sclera from the effort of the purge  
  
He lets the eyelid drop. Scowls again. His entire chest hurts, and he can't tell if it's the funny rhythm of his heart or just stupid fucking Anxiety, with the capital A and the shitty trademark symbol.

Well, if he ever wanted an omen to tell him to stop fucking up his heart with stomach acid and electrolyte imbalance, here it was. He'll certainly stop now. Here's his wake-up call. He's going to turn it around.

He cups water in his hands and drinks straight from the sink, as much as he can, trying to replace the fluids he's lost. And now he's officially completed the purge, he thinks to himself; he's drank water, and everyone knows that if you throw up, and then drink water, and then throw up again, you're just asking for a heart attack. Simmons squeezes his eyes shut. Blinks them open. Scrubs more water and spits again. Tilts his head this way and that, and eventually reassured himself that only the barest edges of the burst blood cells are visible if he tilts his head straight up and looks down. He'll be fine. Nobody will notice.

He didn't purge water from the bottom of his stomach, so he's still got lines he won't cross yet. He's pretty sure the last few times blood cells broke in his eye from purging, it made a bigger spot, anyway. He exits the bathroom with the curious blankness that always follows a purge with not a single thought in his head overthinking what he'd just done. He doesn't have to if he's going to recover, right?

It occurs to Simmons only thirty minutes later, when he's left the bathroom altogether, how few of Grif's toiletries actually exist in the bathroom, either.  
  


* * *

 

  
  
  
The instant Simmons comes into view, Grif makes eye contact with him, stands up, and leaves the food court.

Tucker hollers after him, "You're just gonna leave half your pizza? Not even a goodbye?! You're gonna hear from my divorce lawyer, you piece of—aw, fuck," says Tucker, seeing Simmons for the first time. "I should have figured."

Simmons doesn't reply at first, too busy glaring a hole in the back of Grif's head. A nearby family of four gives Simmons a warily concerned look. Simmons feels like he should be terrified that Grif was willing to leave pizza just to escape Simmons, but on the other hand... Simmons looks at the remains of Grif's pizza with disdain. Picks it up, chucks it in the trash.

"Hey! I was gonna eat that!" Tucker cries.

"That's disgusting and unsanitary," says Simmons, as if Simmons doesn't have a weird impulse to clean out scraps of food that other people have left behind, for fear that they'll ping Simmons in the back of his brain over and over like a chair with an uneven leg.  Except that the entire table is littered with food, because the residents of that table were Tucker, Caboose, Wash, and Grif, and the only person of the Reds and Blues who can eat neatly at a dinner table is Sarge, which really says something considering how he demands all his steaks be cut entirely raw.

Irritably, Simmons resolves to pull the plug on overanalyzing the contents of anyone's dishes, or the ways they eat. He's just not going to do it. He literally threw up thirty minutes ago; let him enjoy his post-purge peace for once. Simmons sits in Grif's empty chair. "Oh no," says Simmons sourly, "was I interrupting Grif's lunch?"

Tucker eyes him. "Obviously! Dude ran like you were the Meta!”

"Can't imagine why," says Simmons, in the same nasty tone of voice that makes even Simmons want to crawl under a rock, and then adds: "considering that we're not fighting."

Literally everyone at the table rolls their eyes. Even Caboose, which earns a disbelieving stare from Simmons.

“Grif said almost the exact same thing not forty minutes ago," Wash tells Simmons.

"You two are a fucking class act," says Tucker. "Ugh, ugh ugh ugh, this is going to be so awkward all the time now, isn't it? Fuck the Red and Blue Team divide. All our social interactions are going to be divided into 'with Grif' or 'with Simmons'."

"With Grif with Simmons," says Caboose cheerfully under his breath. "With Simmons with Grif. Yes, usually.“

"It won't be that bad," says Wash. "You're overreacting. Don't Grif and Simmons fight all the time, anyway?"

"Not like this, dude! I don't know what the fuck is going on anymore!"

"Hello? Earth to Blue Team?" Simmons says. "I'm right here, listening to you speculate about my love life?"

Everyone groans again.

"That's _also_ what Grif said!" Tucker cries. "Why didn't you just get married like the universe wanted you to?! I had a bet with Church and now I'm gonna lose like fifty dollars!"

"I don't think Church has fifty bucks anymore," says Caboose. "There's no room in Carolina's armor."

"Fuck! Goddammit, I got swindled by making a bet with a dude who was secretly like ten AI in a trenchcoat with no cash."

“Don't you hate it when that happens," says Caboose.

"I'm gonna be real honest here," says Tucker. "I actually hate it more when your crimson-color-coded neighbors won't tell you why they're suddenly fighting like cats."

"We're not fighting," snaps Simmons. Oh, there goes the mellow post-purge feeling; completely gone now. "Are you just going to nitpick at all of our flaws? Because we've already got Sarge for that."

Tucker waves a hand. "Oh, what the fuck ever. Fine. Geez, you guys get one guy pulled off a cliff one time, and suddenly it's a Korean soap opera with you. Grif didn't even die and you're falling to pieces!"

Simmons's eyes narrow. "That's— _excuse_ you? That’s not what this is about. You think this is about the time Grif almost died? Why would I give a shit about that? Why would anyone? It's Grif. There's an entire Red Team subclause outlawing it."

"I can't tell if you're joking or not," says Tucker, squinting. "But like, for the record, dude, I was."

“Mind your own business, Blue.”

“It is _entirely_ my business, asshole,” Tucker replies. “Both of you are being huge buzzkills and general downers.”

“What Tucker means is that sometimes friends ask about each other because they care,” says Wash dryly.

 _For what?_ Simmons thinks. _Like they could do anything even if I told them._

“No I fucking didn’t; don’t put pansy words in my mouth,” says Tucker.

“Also,” says Wash, “if Tucker were not allergic to pansy words, he would also say that the point of a _team_ is that you all help each other.”

“Good thing I’m not on Blue Team,” says Simmons.

“And the point of a team isn’t fucking friendship, dumbass; it’s that some asshole steals all the hot water and you can’t shoot them for it because it’s their turn to make Caboose lunch,” Tucker says.

Wash thinks about this. “I actually can’t argue with that,” says Wash.

“Teams are for a bunch of individuals to live in the same space while staying in their lane,” Simmons replies.

“Dude, that sounds lonely as fuck.”

“And it keeps Red Team out of drama, doesn’t it?” Simmons retorts. “You see any of us hiding ex-evil Freelancers under our beds from the authorities?”

“Why don’t you say that louder in this very crowded, very public food court,” Wash says.

“Teams are for when you are too short to reach the cookies on the top shelf so someone helps you get it,” says Caboose.

“That’s dumb,” says Tucker.

“Sometimes they can carry you and you can reach it that way,” says Caboose. “Or maybe they can get it for you. And if they can’t do those, maybe they can teach you how to climb up the cabinets. Or they can find a ladder for you and hold it while you use it. Or maybe they know where the ladder is and you don’t. Or they know where the cookies are in the first place and you don’t!”

“That’s super dumb,” says Tucker.

“Tucker is just saying that because he is short,” says Caboose smugly.

“I’m not short! I’m average! A normal height! Plenty of guys are this tall!”

“And maybe they can’t help you get the cookies at all,” says Simmons sourly.

“Then they can cheer you on!” says Caboose.

Simmons’s eyes narrow. “Then maybe there’s no cookies in the first place.”

“Maybe you can learn how to make new cookies!”

“You can’t,” says Simmons bitterly.

“Then they can keep you company,” says Caboose. “I think that’s very nice no matter what.”

“You’re an idiot,” says Simmons, and then pretends to not see the little startled look on Caboose’s face. Caboose says nothing. Of course he doesn’t; he’s used to being called an idiot, isn’t he?

Wash looks from Caboose to Simmons to Tucker and back.

Simmons looks at the table. Caboose has a half-eaten sandwich that he’s eaten only the bread from. Wash has the same sandwich on his plate, with only the sandwich meat eaten. Fucking _Washington_ , eating healthily and balanced and actually dealing with his team’s bullshit—stupid _fucking_ Caboose, fucking manchikd dragged along by his team day in and day out—fucking _Tucker_ , sticking his shitty jock nose in everyone else’s business—

“I’m leaving,” Simmons snaps, and stands up.

“Y’know, I’d say you just got here, but considering you’ve been only a massive dickhole since you got here, I think I’ll say good fucking riddance instead,” says Tucker.

Simmons’s entire chest squeezes and his stomach squirms. He deserves that and he knows it and he hates it and fuck Tucker for saying so.

“Well, it’s not like I came here to talk about my feelings!” Simmons cries. “There’s nothing fucking wrong with wanting to destress with other people once in a while! Just because there’s a problem doesn’t mean you have to make it a federal fucking issue! Why can’t you just ignore it and let the only people who _can_ deal with it fucking deal with it by themselves?!”

There’s a silence. Tucker’s suspicious, grudging expression doesn’t change. “So you admit there is a problem,” says Tucker.

“NO,” says Simmons, and stomps away.

“What did you expect when you two clowns can't stop fucking echoing each other!" Tucker calls after him. "Because Grif said all that shit, too!"


	68. The Vacancy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It’s not a big deal,” says Grif.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Yeah, people love to see Grif and Simmons together. I mean, Caboose and Church is a pair as well. But Grif and Simmons are different. You cannot separate them." -Burnie Burns

How fucking _dare_ they.

It’s not like he asked to be in this impossible situation. If people knew how much time and energy he’d put into this stupid recovery scheme, nobody could accuse him of not trying. He’d done nothing _but_ try since he got onto this stupid ship. But _nooooo_ , for some _nonsense_ reason, he in particular is forced to live with this--this-- _whatever_ the fuck this is, and nothing, it seems, would kill the stupid thing, not to the standards he needs, not without doing something hideous like resigning himself to eating fried lard and turning into a pile of garbage himself because he’s just somehow too fucking broken to stay away from them--he’s so fed up with this--he’s _so fucking fed up with this._ He went into recovery to get away from single stalled bathrooms that would take over his life and now the effort of recovering from that turns out to be just as bad. What’s next--that he’ll have to recover from recovery? If he’d only just _not_ had to deal with this, if he could be _normal_ , if he could be anormal human who just ate and never made a big deal about it and maybe lived in a world where the food wasn’t all _fucking poison_ and deceitful, distrustful pieces of fuck that made the sheer act of giving a damn a production requiring half his sanity and all of his time—

And so on and so forth. In other words, everything sucks and everyone is awful and everyone in the whole world should fuck off about this stupid fucking situation.

Simmons’s irritable mood follows him through the _Hand of Merope_ like a good friend. And like a good friend, he takes his time to encourage it, to bolster it and listen to everything it has to say back. Today, he’s getting a good and proper fume on, really marinating in it, getting himself good and motivated, to the point that he’s so good and angry when he gets back to his room he doesn’t realize how clean it is until he’s thrown himself in his bed to sulk.

Specifically, he throws himself in his bed, and didn’t have to pick up any of Grif’s clothes, and he didn’t trip over any oddly placed suitcases, and when he looks over across the room, Grif’s bed is clean and made.

Simmons sits back upright.

Grif’s clothes aren’t on the floor. They’re not even in sight.

Grif’s suitcase isn’t in the middle of the room because, apparently, it doesn’t seem to be in the room at all.

He jumps out of bed and checks under it, under Grif’s bed, in the drawers, in the bathroom for some goddamn reason, slam cupboards and doors the whole way. Nothing that belongs to Grif. Empty. Grif might as well not have ever lived there at all--Simmons can’t even find a _stain_ to prove Grif had ever been there, and since when did Grif not even stain the bedsheets?

That’s it, Simmons decides; he’s going to wake up and realize this is all a dream in a minute. This isn’t _really_ happening to him. “When the _fuck,”_ he hisses to himself, thinking--when was the last time he’d seen this room? How much time passed between when Simmons saw Grif with the Blues and now? How long did Simmons spend with the Blues himself? How clean was this room before that? Was Grif _planning_ this? Why didn’t he say something? No, never mind, Simmons knows the answer to that--how _long_ was this going on? Why didn’t Simmons notice?

There’s nobody in the hallway, either. For some reason, his heart hurts. His entire chest hurts. He grabs his helmet and messages Grif:

> **SM: Where’s all your stuff??  
>  (Unread)**

No response.

> **SM: Seriously it’s too clean, what’s going—**

\--and then he deletes that message because he knows what’s going on. He clutches his helmet in the nearly-empty room.

What the fuck is he supposed to say instead? They don’t _have_ a language for anything like this. They know how to bitch and complain and annoy each other and one-up each others’ terrible stupidity--they’re not supposed to do anything else--this isn’t _fair._ What is he supposed to do? What was he supposed to have done? What was the right answer? Why did nobody tell him? Is this like eating, or like school, or like the whole everything-about-him, and he’s the only person in the fucking _universe_ who missed the memo on how to be adequate?

> **SM: Where’s all your stuff??** **  
> ** **(Read)**
> 
> **GR: With sarge** **  
> ** **(Read)**

Simmons’s eye twitches. (Not enough sleep. Why sleep when you can binge and purge.)

> **SM: Why?** **  
> ** **(Read)**
> 
> **GR: Im switching with wash** **  
> ** **(Read)**
> 
> **GR: Wash doesnt know yet tho** **  
> ** **(Read)**
> 
> **GR: If you see him let em kno** **  
> ** **(Read)**
> 
> **SM: Where are you??** **  
> ** **(Read)**

But Grif does not respond.

 

* * *

 

 

Now, considering that Simmons is a socially inept person who’s built up a relationship primarily centered around _not_ talking about serious issues with Grif, who is also a socially inept person, and has _just acknowledged_ that he doesn’t know what to say and doesn’t know what to do and in particular has no real plan of attack because he he has no real actual argumentative leg to stand on, you would think that Simmons would, henceforth, sit the fuck down, and maybe think, for at least a minimum of two seconds, about his next plan of action.

Fortunately, Simmons has only two settings, which is overthinking and impulsivity. Therefore, we are all spared from another megalithic paragraph about Simmons overthinking everything by virtue of Simmons doing the stupidest possible option available to him, which is to go straight to Sarge’s door and bang on it.

Sarge’s voice says, “That’s probably—”

Grif’s voice says, “Fuck off, Simmons!”

“You don’t even know it’s me!” Simmons says angrily. “What if I were Caboose?!”

“ _Are_ you Caboose?”

“No! Obviously! It’s me!”

“Then fuck off, Simmons!”

Simmons kicks the door. Hard.

Sarge opens the door. “We are _absolutely_ not having a fight between you two! Shame on you! Doing this in front of _Lopez_!”

Simmons looks down on the floor at the little compact travel case in which Lopez has been disassembled. Looks back up at Sarge. “Where’s Grif,” he says.

“Right behind me! Grif graciously volunteered to accept his obvious mistake of having promposed to you in the middle of the night!” Sarge declares. “As such, he’s removed himself from the situation. You’re very welcome!”

“Did _you_ tell him to leave,” Simmons says.

Sarge must hear or see _something_ just then, because rather than answering, he just frowns. “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” says Grif, and shoves Sarge out ot the way. “Jesus Christ, this isn’t a battered women’s shelter. What do you want, Simmons.”

That’s not a question Simmons can answer.

“What’s going on?” Simmons demands instead.

“This sounds like drama,” says Sarge suspiciously. “I thought you said you were endin’ the drama.”

“Yeah, I am,” says Grif. “Particularly because there _is_ no drama, and we’re not fighting—”

“I can see through your fake news any day, Minor Junior Private Negative First Class Dexter Grif!”

“How the fuck do you remember all that?! Go away already!” Grif says, and shoves Sarge away with surprising gentleness. “And you,” he says to Simmons, “are not flipping shit. I’m not divorcing you, goddamn.”

That weirdly reassures Simmons for half a second, before Simmons remembers that this is supposed to be a sarcastic phrase because they’re not really married. Grif goes on, “I’m just switching roommates. Everyone’s losing their minds about how we’re fighting or whatever their drama-loving Blue hearts want to believe. If I’m not in your room, there’s less gossip. Super simple.”

“So you just--what, up and evacuated while I wasn’t looking?!”

“It’s not a big deal,” says Grif.

“It kind of _feels_ like a big deal!”

“Well, that’s none of my business,” says Grif. “No idea why it’d feel that way. Considering that we’re not fighting.”

Simmons doesn’t have a response to that. Either he says yes, it _is_ a big deal because we’re fighting, or no, you’re right, it’s not a big deal because we’re not fighting. But Simmons knows it’s a big deal but he can’t say why, and he _also_ knows that they’re not fighting because there’s nothing to be fighting about.

Grif glances back over his shoulder, looking for Sarge, and then back. He has a particular expression of boredom, the one that got Grif his reputation in the first days of Blood Gulch--glazed over like he’s not entirely there, mocking and suspicious, but just mild and passive enough that Sarge couldn’t tear into him for the insubordination that Grif hadn’t technically committed yet. “Stop making a big deal out of it,” he says.

“I’m--I’m not,” Simmons stammers. “I just…”

“Sure. Okay. You just do whatever it is you’re doing, and I’m just switching with Wash.”

Simmons flinches.

“Like, I got it, man,” says Grif, with that same, oddly vacant stare. “I’m not going to pry or anything. It’s none of my business and I’m the king of staying out of shit that doesn’t concern me. I don’t--just--yeah. Just don’t tell me anything. There’s nothing going on anyway and it’s not a big deal.”

“We’re not even having a fight anyway,” Simmons echoes.

“Yeah,” says Grif. “So just... forget I said anything.”

And Grif closes the door in Simmons’s face.


	69. (Ignore This)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What is he saying?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE. SEX. N U M B E R !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

This is fine. Simmons is fine. Everything's fine.

This doesn't mean anything. 

 

* * *

 

 

People make a big deal out of the fact that Simmons donated, like, half his body to Grif. He wishes they wouldn't. Most of the time they're in full body armor, anyway, and it's easy to forget that their faces aren't literally Mark VI visor plates; and then Simmons takes off his helmet and wow, Simmons sure is a cyborg, which is odd but not unheard of and (most importantly) bears zero indication of where exactly he got those metal faceplates; and then Grif takes off  _his_ helmet and whoops, that's  _literally_ half of Simmons's face skin on Grif's face bones. It's not like anyone points it out anymore, but sometimes he sort of... sees it on people's faces? That Grif and Simmons are two mishmashes of one weird bucket of bits, and sort of were way before anyone got run over with a tank.

But it's not like that means anything. 

For a while, in Blood Gulch, Simmons lived in vague fear of people asking him why he'd done the surgery, and he has a whole constructed answer about how it was just math, you need more Reds than Blues to keep the upper hand, it's just practical to have Grif alive even if Grif never shoots anyone or follows basic orders or even gives much of a shit about the Blues anyhow. But nobody ever did ask him why he'd done it, and that was fine with him, because then he just held on to the answer he'd thought up, held it in his throat for the moment someone might ask, swallowed it down until he believed it, and that was  _very_ find with him. That was, in fact, great. Because now it didn't mean anything that he'd donated half his face and also his arm and a leg and various organs, including his heart and fucked up esophagus, none of that meant jack shit, because he's thought about it so hard that the (false) thing became slightly (less false) more true. He can't let people go getting the wrong idea, you know? (He can't let himself go getting the wrong idea.) It was the numbers; the numbers have nothing to do with the endless daylight hours in the desert sun, standing post on the roof, trading jokes like cheap cigarettes, addicted to the little moment when they'd almost laugh before they remembered where they were. Every near-laugh counted. Every hit of almost-happiness was better than nothing. Even if you're in bum-fuck nowhere and possibly physically dying of boredom, you've got to live. You've got live. And if you're going to live, you've got to keep trying. 

He's being stupid--don't listen to any of this bullshit--it doesn't matter, he's fine, everything is fine--he's making it sound like he needs Grif to live which is not true--it's not true at all--he was a whole human being before he met Grif and he will be afterwards--he'll live, he'll live, it's not like it matters if someone makes living a little more enjoyable, a little more worth it--there's  _nothing_ wrong--

You know when there was nothing wrong? Rat's Nest. Simmons didn't care about anyone or anything except his fucking career and throwing up in the armory bathroom, and he hated it, obviously, but he must have hated it a little less than whatever  _this_ bullshit is--except that that's false because there's nothing wrong--no, no, the time they almost died at Rat's Nest, no, that didn't bother him at all, and  _that's_ the quality marker of a better situation. Grif and Simmons would have died at the same time, side by side, and you can't be bored (or bulimic) when you're dead. And it's not like Simmons isn't prepared for dying--he's a soldier, right? The inevitability of death is old news; you get that memo when you're fucking born. He's known he could die since he entered basic. But there are certain  _kinds_ of dying that Simmons would hate: dying alone in a desert, dying by accident, dying from a stray bullet, from friendly fire, on a mission nobody cares about, over some dumb embezzlement scheme that amounted to nothing (and he's watching himself in the past tense from the outside in, watching himself make flippant jokes in the face of a firing squad and half-thinking about saying _Hey Grif I love you_ just for the shit's and giggles, and he wants to  _shake_  his past self awake and scream _WHAT ARE YOU DOING. YOU CAN'T LET THIS HAPPEN, GRIF IS--_ )

The hell is he thinking? What is he saying? Ignore this! It doesn't matter! This isn't a big deal--

But you know what should be illegal? You know what should be fucking _outlawed_? After settling down in Valhalla, actually finding a decent place to live unbothered by the UNSC or Freelancer, it should be  _forbidden_ to get dragged into  _someone else's_ bullshit, because _someone else's_ bullshit is dangerous, and involves driving into the desert, which has a  _minefield_ , apparently, and involves Red Team splitting up so they have no idea if anyone else is still alive, when Simmons absolutely fucking  _knew_ that leaving to help Caboose would have ruined everything, and then it fucking did, and Simmons let Grif go anyway because it was better than Grif just lying in bed all day long and staring at the wall, but now that he thinks about it he wishes to god that he'd  _made_ Grif stay at Red Base and  _made_ Caboose move in--fuck off, Tucker--they should have settled down there and stayed the same, forever, specifically in the way that they were right before Donut had to fucking go and tell Grif that Lopez killed Grif's sister, when things were fine and--and--and it's not like Simmons had been  _expecting_ anything, from their weird little fake-dating game; it was just a particularly fun way to pass the endless acres of hours and hours and hours, and none of it meant anything, it was no big deal, it's not like Simmons misses Valhalla or Blood Gulch because they can't go back to Valhalla because the UNSC is pissed at them and Simmons isn't something as stupid as  _homesick_ , because neither Blood Gulch nor Valhalla are home to any one of them, they've moved too many times to have a home, and the only constant these days are Sarge and Caboose and Grif and Grif and Grif (and you shouldn't be allowed to be homesick for a person who lives right next door)--

And he's not, because everything is fine and Simmons is fine and it's fine and it's fine and Grif _said_ it's not a big deal--

And Simmons will never admit to this on pain of death, but after they'd pulled Grif up off the cliff, they'd wound up hugging. It'd been a mistake! An awkward weird thing that shouldn't have happened! But Grif was just—unsteady from having almost died, wheezing from the exertion of having held on, and one second Simmons was just trying to keep him on his feet, and then they were both keeping each other on their feet, and then it kinda turned into a one-armed embrace except there were two arms involved? Like, oh, wow, okay, this is really happening, huh? They're really doing this, covered in snow and cold sweat from having nearly died and very really unsure why they'd fought the Meta in the first god damn place, and it would not have been worth it at all, Simmons remembers thinking, it wouldn't have been worth it at all for Grif to have died just to kill some dude who was Blue Team's problem anyway (and specifically, _Wash's_ problem). And Grif was heaving entire lungfuls of air in Simmons's arms, and although Simmons couldn't feel him at all through the two layers of armor, that reassured him a bit--just a bit--knowing that somewhere in that orange armor, Grif was alive and kicking. The only indication Simmons gets that Grif is a living, breathing human being is when he opens his fat mouth to shit on everything Red Team stands for, but talking is against the rules when someone's just gotten pulled up from off a cliff, don't you know? It's a step too far. You can't. You're not allowed. Whatever you do, don't say something sappy. Don't confess something you'll regret. Don't confess something  _Grif_ will regret. Don't you fucking dare ask him if he's okay. What he's doing and what he's feeling and thinking are none of your business, right? _Don't pry or anything._ _It’s none of your business and we stay out of shit that doesn’t concern you. Don't ask, and he won't tell you anything. There’s nothing going on anyway and it’s not a big deal. We’re not even having a fight anyway._ So just forget he said anything! Because Simmons doesn't care and it's not his fault and there's no reason his heart shudders like a flickering lightbulb and Grif's eyes are dull and vacant and Simmons can imagine, with such force and clarity and repetition that it feels like it really happened, the weight of Grif's hand slipping from Simmons's, the squeeze of Grif's skin on his behind Red Base under the cool Valhalla sun while Simmons thought and overthought about a million different things he could say, a million different things he could do, searching for the perfect plan of action to put into a concrete voice and reason while something without voice and without reason did not move or plan or think, it simply  _was_ , and this thing hoped for something that even now he can't put into words, he only knew that every cell of his body  _wanted_ something with the force of a body  _demanding_ that it be fed or a body  _demanding_ that he purge, some terrible tidal pull that felt like drowning and strung him out, flayed him open along the slight pressure of Grif's grip around Simmons's wrist before Grif pulled away and left. And it's the same, always the same, the same sun in Blood Gulch and the same stupid war games in Valhalla, which is what Simmons always wanted, isn't it? To just keep the status quo forever and ever. The status quo's got to be enough, hasn't it? Staying the same,  _being_ the same,  _will_ be enough, because he's going to make it enough. Because change is like dying, and if Grif's hand slipping out of Simmons's fingers off the cliffs of Sidewinder tells him anything, he never, ever wants to change. Just let them be the same. It feels safe here. (This is what recovery looks like, right?) And if safe is a place like Blood Gulch, hot and intolerable and boring and leeching the life out of them both, at least he'll feel safe, and he might almost laugh at something Grif says, and if he can't have happiness he should at least have that, so that they never, ever have to feel (Grif dying)--

\--and it's not a big deal, it's nothing, it's nonsense, just lies and words and bad bad stories, all the fake dating and the fake break-ups and the fake fighting is fake fake fake fake fake, because Simmons thinks he might die under the weight of it if any of this was real. 


	70. Invisible Highwire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter One  
> I walk down the street.  
> There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.  
> I fall in.  
> I am lost… I am helpless.  
> It isn’t my fault.  
> It takes forever to find a way out.
> 
> Chapter Two  
> I walk down the street.  
> There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.  
> I pretend that I don’t see it.  
> I fall in again.  
> I can’t believe I am in this same place.  
> But it isn’t my fault.  
> It still takes a long time to get out.
> 
> Chapter Three  
> I walk down the same street.  
> There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.  
> I see it is there.  
> I still fall in… it’s a habit… but my eyes are open.  
> I know where I am.  
> It is my fault.  
> I get out immediately.
> 
> Chapter Four  
> I walk down the same street.  
> There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.  
> I walk around it.
> 
> Chapter Five  
> I walk down another street.
> 
> -"There’s a Hole in My Sidewalk: An Autobiography in Five Short Chapters" by Portia Nelson

On the thirty-seventh day, Agent Washington is standing in the middle of Simmons's room (where Grif is supposed to be).

"Fare thee well, Wash," says Tucker mournfully, standing in the doorway of Simmons's room. "We hardly knew ye. Actually super literally too; half the time you were around, Caboose was calling you 'yellow Church'."

"I'm not going to die," says Wash. "It's not like you're never going to see me again. I'm just moving into Simmons's room."

"Maybe not right away. I'm sure it'll take a few days for your brooding one liners and cryptic messages and angsty staring-into-the-distance to really come out. But then they'll all hit Simmons's drama, and then that shit'll mix like a margarita, and then one of you'll end up dead and the other probably naked and covered in blood. That's chemistry!"

Wash looks angstily off into the distance. Simmons interrupts, "That's not how chemistry works, idiot."

"Not the nerd chemistry! The human chemistry!"

"Human chemistry is about dating and girls and nobody is supposed to be naked and covered in blood there either!"

"I mean it depends on what you're into--"

"Go away if you're not going to help Wash move in!" Simmons cries.

Tucker does not go away. "Okay, well, chemistry might not be the _exact_ word, because I'm pretty sure all your electrons are paired with Grif anyway, but you  _cannot_ tell me that two white twunks in a room isn't the start of either a porno, a subreddit, or a movie going for Oscar bait, and  _everyone_ knows the twunks end up dead in those--"

Wash kicks the door closed.

"He's already starting! He's doing his Freelancer Dramatics™! Rest in fucking pieces, Simmons, you're about to eat shit!--And also if it goes down the porno route, get that shit on tape!--For science!"

They wait, but it seems like Tucker's got it out of his system, and Wash just sighs and dumps his duffel bag on the floor. Turns around to face the half-empty room. Simmons instinctively tries to make himself smaller, hoping Wash will ignore him. He does. "Alright," Wash says, and rolls his neck. "Let's get this over with."

Simmons  _tries_ to help, not because he wants to but because it'd be too awkward to just stand there while Wash unpacks, but truthfully, Wash has it more than under control and his instructions are too vague to do anything with--"Just put it over there," mostly, before Wash his hand in a general direction like it doesn't matter to him where it goes. He's a terrible picture of easy moderation: shoving clothes into drawers in decently folded shape, but not sweatin git when a shirt fell out of its folding; the drawers are loosely organized by type of clothing, except when Wash runs out of room for all the armor bits and he just shoves them in a corner; toiletries are a disorganized jumble in a singularly contained bag; he has an entire bag of weapons with duck tape on the outside that spells _SHOES--DO NOT OPEN_ , like anyone's actually going to fall for that.

He also has a whole plastic bag of snacks. And Simmons told Grif to take all the snacks out of the room, which Grif did, but like hell is Simmons going to tell  _Washington_ that. 

There's lots of protein powder--buckets of them, in mostly vanilla or plain. A jar of peanut butter. Dried banana chips. A few battered ration bars, for some reason all in the blueberry oatmeal flavor. In the middle of unpacking, Wash eats a snack, mostly to take the time to survey what still needed to be unpacked. He forgets about the meal bar on Grif's bed halfway through, refinds it when he has to put the sheets on, and ends up rewrapping it to save for later. Simmons watches this like Wash is an alien.

Wash--and Carolina--are both absurdly fit, but they do not eat the same way, and they are not fit in the same way. Carolina is  _ripped_  and everyone could tell even through the armor. She ate mostly ration bars. While they were on the road, Epsilon might insist that she take a rest break and eat something, at which point Carolina might drink powdered whey with powdered milk and water and call it a meal just to appease him. It's not a hyper clean diet. It's a boring diet, without variety, joy, or doubt. They eat things to stay alive--not like Grif, eating for fun, or Caboose, insistent on only the hyperpalatable foods that can hold his attention, or Donut, who mostly chose his foods based on how sweet they were. Carolina eats like Sarge, like they've got marching orders.

Wash, mostly, just eats whatever. He's fit, but from the times Simmons has seen him work out, his stomach is flat with only the soft outline of where abs should be. He's got broad shoulders and a trim waist with a bit of a pouch on his stomach and zero bicep definition, although the biceps are definitely there. He looks like he _should_ be a model, except for the freckles and acne scars and the fact that his body fat percentage isn’t low enough. And he eats effortlessly, maintains a terribly attractive aesthetic standard apparently without thinking, a terrifying balancing act of easy moderation, suspended between extremes on a highwire Simmons can't see. And it's not like Simmons doens't know how to micromanage a diet and _outwardly_ look like he isn't, because he certainly does, and has, but the difference is that at the end of the day, Wash moves on and does something else with his life, like eating food is no big deal and is not the central conflict around which his life revolves, and  _that,_ more than anything is the thing that Simmons  _hates_.

Simmons hates  _everyone_ like Wash.

Wash catches Simmons staring and frowns. "Want one?" he asks, pointing to the bag of snacks lying forgotten on the floor.

Absolutely not. He forgot to draw up a potential recovery plan yesterday. He's not equipped to fight with food. For just today, he really wants to just not throw up _and_ not fight for it, and he's so tired of trying to make it happen with his bare hands and white knuckles.

Wash shrugs and puts the snacks in the pants drawer.

 

* * *

 

 

"Can I ask a question?" Wash asks, when he's finished unpacking.

Simmons's brain replays Donut dying in slow motion and also the entirety of the singular conversation Grif had with him at Rat's Nest about the eating disorder that Simmons totally doesn't have.

"Not like a serious question," Wash says hastily. "Normal question. Average question. No-stakes question."

No, Simmons is not fooled by this. He's not falling for Wash's Freelancer tricks. He glances covertly for the nearest exit. "Uhhh, sure? Okay? Uhhh, whatever you say, go ahead, I'll just be inching unobtrusively towards the door...?"

Wash gives him a flat look. "Do you remember how you were all talking about how you hate Blood Gulch a few weeks ago?"

"What about it?" Simmons says warily.

"Well, Grif--is it okay if I bring up Grif?"

"Why wouldn't it be?" Simmons says. "It's not like we're fighting. It's not like we broke up or anything. Which we couldn't do, because we weren't dating. And also we weren't married, either, I've heard that joke from Tucker. We're not in any sort of relationship except for the one that it is absolutely entirely normal for two dudes to have, except that obviously homosexual relationships are okay and normal too because I'm not a homophobe and I definitely didn't mean to imply that a romantic homosexual relationship between two men is somehow abnormal ha ha ha that would be really weird and not a thing I would do! And for that matter it's absolutely okay to bring up Grif because I definitely have zero hang-ups whatsoever about that whole situation and would love to hear about Grif but not in a gay way like I'm starved for information about what he's doing or thinking or saying because I'm not that either! I am a perfectly normal and adequate amount of chill surrounding Grif. Please continue and tell me about Grif."

"Uh-huh," says Wash suspiciously. "Okay, well, Grif was talking about Blood Gulch again, about how it's dumb to go back to a place you all hate, and... I've never lived at Blood gulch, so I wouldn't know. But it seems like a fair point me."

Yeah, Simmons doesn't like this question. And surprisingly, it has nothing to do with Grif.

Okay, maybe it has a little bit to do with Grif.

Wash goes on, "Like, I know that you've been there a lot, and you've spent a lot of time making Valhalla the same sort of place, but if none of you actually  _want_ to go back... what if you all just... went somewhere else?"

"Like it's that easy?" Simmons says sourly. 

"Sure. Why not?"

Blood Gulch might not be a  _good_ way to live--even Simmons knows that. But it's the one he's got, the one he knows. Wash--what would Wash know about tearing up your own life of your own volition and starting from nothing? Wash had his life torn up  _for_ him. He got to reconstruct from the ashes someone else made for him. It's one thing to be forced out of your life; it's something else altogether to have to do it with your own two hands. To make something new, you've got to tear down the old, and there's no guarantee that you'll come out better for it once you're done destroying even the meager good things you cling to. And  _that's_ why not: even the worst ways of living kept you alive, barely, and you can fall in love with the small happinesses that it grants you even as it kills you. Many people would cling to that than take the plunge and raze their own securities to the ground. 

But fuck if Simmons is verbal enough to put such a thing into words, so mostly he just glowers at Wash, and Wash holds open his hands, as if to say,  _Well? Why not?_

"Because we're a bunch of candy-colored dumbshits who make terrible life decisions," says Simmons.

"Wow, I had no idea," says Wash. "Tell me more about these terrible life decisions that may or may not include fighting an eight-foot-tall supersoldier, adopting an internationally-wanted criminal, lying directly to the UNSC's faces, smart-assing Agent Carolina, charging directly into the heart of a high-tech military project's secret base, providing Caboose with live ammo, and apparently fucking an alien."

"Also feeding Caboose crayons and lighter fluid on his birthday," Simmons says.

Wash sighs and visibly tunes back out of the conversation. "Never mind. Forget I asked anything."

"Oh, and also deciding most major arguments with either real bullets or rock-paper-scissors!" Simmons adds.

"I said never mind!"

 

* * *

 

 

On the thirty-eighth day, Grif and Simmons are Officially Unfighting.

Move out. Stop fighting. The end.

And potentially stop talking to each other altogether, because if nobody is going to break the silence after an awkward conversation first, then the awkward silence keeps going and going until it's an awkward silence between strangers and then it's just silence, and then it's not your problem anymore. Case in point: procrastination and denial _always_ work. True facts. Scientifically proven.

Simmons remembers this from the older days--Rat's Nest, most vividly, when they had the real opportunity to declare that they didn't know each other and didn't care and fully go their separate ways with something as small as an awkward conversation, except they can't do that when they're still living next door to each other and only have mutual friends in their social circles and also they're stuck on a spaceship cruiseliner for the next foreseeable months. 

They've done this before, haven't they? Over and over and over again.

When Grif asked about if Simmons was okay at Rat's Nest--when Simmons didn't ask if Grif was okay in Valhalla--when Grif found Simmons half-covered in blood in the bathroom in the middle of the night--when Simmons told Grif that he "throws up on purpose sometimes"--it's always the same, isn't it? Turn away, awkward silence, feel the encroaching imminent end of their relationship altogether, compromise, start talking but definitely not about whatever the awkward thing was--every time.

Every time.

The same day, intolerable and tolerable; the sun never sets; the war never gets won; the single-stalled bathroom never ends; the conversation never gets done.

And the next time Grif slouches out of Sarge's room and refuses to meet Simmons's eyes in the hallway, it occurs to Simmons that he's really fucking sick of it.


	71. Fakedating Doghouse

When Simmons is sure that Wash has gone to the gym for his regularly scheduled Freelancer sweat session, he pulls the door to the single stalled bathroom closed and, for the first time since he got on this ship, takes a good look in the mirror.

Caboose is right: Simmons doesn't look any different after spending nearly forty days with his head in a toilet. It might as well not be happening, for all the proof he's got to show for it. He's certainly no wasted stick figure that he was at the end of high school. Just a totally normal guy here, not fucked up at all, with his average freckles and average eyes and average haircut and average frown.

But Simmons isn’t here to look himself. (For once.) Simmons clears his throat. Tries to meet his reflection's eyes and winds up embarrassed, so he looks away.

"Hey, Grif--"

No, that's too stilted.

"Hey, asshole--"

No, that's too aggressive.

"Hey, fatass--"

Too, uh, elephant in the room.

Simmons slams his forehead into the mirror. Maybe if he broke it and bled all over the floor, Grif might materialize with a first aid kid and gently insult him and they could pretend they weren't being schmoopy and fond over Simmons's idiocy. But not in those words, because that would be gay.

"Hey, Grif," says Simmons. His reflection looks about as displeased with this imperfection as Grif will be. "How're you doing. great, that's super great, really glad that everything's fine and I definitely know how you're doing lately because I definitely didn't forget to pay attention to everything and everyone for forty days straight. Wait fuck I didn't say that. Okay, cool, I'm glad to hear that you're alive and definitely recovering from the time you almost died off a cliff and you're not at all traumatized by that or endlessly ruminating on that one moment for entire days out of fear of losing your teammate that you don't care about _wait ok hang on I didn't say that either_ uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh no, it's fine, I'm going to do this right--I'm glad to hear that you're totally okay even though your sister recently died and literally nobody talked about it or acknowledged it or held a funeral or anything and also one of our team members killed her and I didn't even ask if you were okay like I intended to and it's probably still on your mind actually now that I say this out loud and I really did mean to ask if you were okay but FUCK, UH, I'M, JESUS CHRIST oh just fuck me--NO NOT THAT EITHER BECAUSE that would be gay--HEY GRIF HOW ARE YOU I'M GLAD TO SEE YOU."

Simmons squints.

"Wow, that last one was terrible," he says to himself. "Even the 'fuck me' was less gay than that. It sounds almost like I _care_ about him."

And everyone knows it's better to awkwardly bring up someone's dead sister and unresolved trauma than to care about people. _Obviously_.

Here's the problem with talking: If you want to talk to someone about the shit you're doing, you've got to have either a) a number or b) a set of words, because knowing a thing doesn't just show up magically in someone's head. If you want someone to know something, you've got to make it real. Walls and floors and dirt and other mundane shit like that is obviously real; things like truth or beauty or justice are harder to pin down; the things that happen entirely inside a person's head, like happiness or love or sadness or being fucked up, are by far the hardest. You'd have to have some kind of proof, a way of measuring it, in order to be fucked up, at least in a tangible way, otherwise--well, you know what they say about trees falling in a forest and no one's around to hear.

You've got to put it into either a number or a word to make it neatly packaged to be transferred to another person's brain, and everyone knows that words are bullshit, so obviously numbers would be the superior choice, every time.

Which is why logically Simmons really should start calorie counting and weighing himself again, which, Simmons knows, would be the best and fastest way to rocket-boost himself straight into hell. And for once in Simmons's life, he really just does _not_ have the time or energy to self-destruct, okay. He's got to have a non-awkward talk with his fake boyfriend.

"Hey, Grif," says Simmons to his own reflection. "Can I grab you for a second from whatever ungodly thing you're doing that Sarge is likely mercilessly insulting you over? I'd like to have a very short and not-at-all extended conversation about something that is definitely not feelings and weirdly personal business that doesn't relate to the fight we're not having because there's absolutely no weird tension between us over the dating we weren't doing, and it'll be great and also not awkward at all and very very heterosexual."

 

* * *

 

 

Simmons is super prepared and this is going to go really well.

 

* * *

 

 

Simmons finds Grif in the hallway.

"Hey Grif--"

"Sorry I have to go someplace else immediately," says Grif and books it out there.

 

* * *

 

  


Simmons finds Grif lurking in the Blood Gulch corner.

"Hey G--"

"Oh no look at the time gotta go sorry," says Grif, jumping up and speedwalking away.

 

* * *

 

  


Simmons tracks Grif down at the upper floor, lurking outside the movie theatre.

"H--"

"JUST REMEMBERED I HAVE TO BE AT A PLACE THAT'S NOT HERE," says Grif loudly, nearly leaping through the ticket window to get away.

 

* * *

 

 

All of a sudden, Simmons doesn't even have time to overthink what he's going to say, because he can't get Grif to fucking _be in one place_ long enough for them to actually have the talk. Honestly, he doesn't have the _time_ to spiral over this conversation because the way Grif's going, the conversation isn't even going to happen at all, because of course fucking Grif has to throw a wrench in literally everything Simmons tries to do, god, typical god damn _Grif_.

(Also, it’s easier to not focus on Wash’s snack stash if he stays out of his room altogether. He wonders if this is what Grif did—finding it easier to be out of the room, day after day, until one day you’ve vanished and nobody realized.)

On the forty-third day, Grif is also not in the room he shares with Sarge. Or Simmons thinks he isn’t, because Sarge won’t fucking confirm where Grif is, and he’s also not letting Simmons into the fucking place to see for himself.

"And I swear to god, if you don't stop lurking outside this doorway like Grif's murderous ex-husband, I will call the cops on you," says Sarge.

"There's no cops on this ship," says Simmons, instead of denying that he's lurking outside Sarge's and Grif's room like Grif's murderous ex-husband, because sometimes Simmons has flashes of self-introspection that aren't complete garbage.

"Living with that Blue is rotting your brain, Simmons!" Sarge says. "Or perhaps you've been fooled by Washington's attempt at plainclothes."

"Wash is not a _cop_."

"That's what he wants you to think!" Sarge cries. "You've fallen for his lies! His Blue devilry ways! Simmons, don't fall for his temptations!"

"I'm not! There's no temptations at all!"

"Excellent work, Simmons. Keep going on that way," says Sarge. "Absolutely do not think about his chiseled jawline and big strong hands and muscled thighs."

"I think those are very specific examples, sir," says Simmons.

"You're thinking about it! He's already working on you!" Sarge wails.

"I wasn't--I didn't--don't sidetrack me!" Simmons cries. "I didn’t come here to talk about Wash’s biceps and freckles and nice smile! I came here to look for Grif! Either he's here or he isn't!"

"And I'm sayin' that I don't want any trouble! Get out of here before I call the chiseled, strong, muscular cop, and-or get my shotgun out!"

" _You wanted us to break up. Why are you protecting Grif's honor now_ ," Simmons hisses.

“I said I didn’t want any _drama_ ,” Sarge corrects.

Tucker pokes his head out of his room, followed immediately by Caboose’s head above his like a pair of Stooges. “Did I hear drama?”

“Look what you’ve done, Simmons!” Sarge cries. “You _know_ drama is like blood in the water for Blues!”

“ _You’re_ the one making it dramatic by not telling me where Grif is! I literally just want to have a conversation with him!”

“I won’t have you on your hands and knees begging Grif to take you back like a terrible soap opera cliché! Next you’ll say that Grif’s the father and you want Grif to take you back and you can do better!”

“ _You’re_ the one who said that Grif was terrible for me and that I’m the one who supposedly dumped him!--which, uh, I definitely did in Valhalla, like right in front of your eyes, there’s no ‘supposedly’ about it,” Simmons says hastily under Sarge’s glare. “Look, forget about it, it’s hard for me to keep all my levels of denial straight sometimes. The point stands that there’s no reason why _I_ would be the one begging Grif to take me back!”

“Oh man, Caboose, tell me we have popcorn somewhere,” says Tucker.

“There’s no drama and no fighting!” Simmons and Sarge snap in unison.

At this point, Grif comes down the hallway stairs with a bag of take-out leaking grease everywhere, sees Simmons outside his door, and immediately turns around to go back up.

“GRIF WAIT NO--”

“GO AWAY I DON’T WANT YOUR EMOTION GERMS,” Grif yells back.

“Excellent work, Private Grif!” Sarge shouts. “Defend against the Soap Opera Threat!”

“STOP COMPLIMENTING ME SARGE THIS IS ALREADY TERRIBLE AND WEIRD AS IT IS.”

"GRIF PLEASE COME BACK I PROMISE I CAN DO BETTER," Simmons hollers across the entire hallway in front of all their friends without thinking, and Grif’s shoulders shake in a way that could be laughter, or maybe just him walking faster.


	72. Letter Day, pt. 5

You know what they say: if at first you don’t succeed, try and try again. And if it doesn’t work, try and try again. And if people tell you that trying the thing that didn’t work over and over is the definition of insanity, feel free to punch them with your cyborg arm and try and try again.

By the time Simmons finally corners Grif, Grif’s gone from warily irritated to bored. “Really, Simmons?” he says, without affect. “Do we really have to do this now?”

“Well, if you responded literally any one of the other times that I texted you--”

The cashier running the mail center looks rapidly between Grif and Simmons and visibly resigns herself to having One Of Those Days At Work.

“--I wouldn’t have to hunt you down while you’re--what’re you doing, anyway?”

Grif looks at Simmons balefully.

“That’s a legitimate question,” says Simmons.

“Why do you even wanna know,” Grif replies.

“Because you’ve been avoiding me!”

“You wanna know what I’m doing because I’ve been avoiding you,” says Grif blandly.

“I--yeah? Yes? What?”

“Do you hear your own circular logic sometimes, Simmons?” Grif asks.

The cashier interrupts, “Sirs, if you need more time, could I ask you to step to the side for other people in line?”

“There’s nobody in line,” says Grif.

“This is a line?” Simmons asks.

“Yeah. Get in it. Wait your turn to have a meltdown.”

“You’re in line to have a  _ meltdown _ ?”

“It’s a  _ joke _ ,” Grif groans. “This is the fucking post office, take a wild goddamn guess what the line is for?”

Simmons, who is usually one of the most observant people on Red Team (which doesn’t say a whole lot), might be  _ observant _ , and might have known, theoretically, where they were (the long distance communications office of the  _ Hand of Merope _ ), but noticing facts and putting facts together is, unfortunately, two separate processes, particularly when putting the facts together usually leads to you having walked in on your not-boyfriend who you aren’t not fighting with attempting to send a letter to his sister who probably isn’t not undead.

“Oh,” says Simmons. “Uh.”

There’s a pause.

“I’m just gonna, um,” says Simmons, and points to the door.

Grif seems even more disgruntled at this. “Ugh, fuck, no, you’re just going to lurk outside the window and look like a kicked dog. Just stay here.”

“So I can lurk over your shoulder and look like a kicked dog  _ here _ ?”

“I really don’t like how you have, like, selective moments of self-awareness,” says Grif. 

“I can only do it when it’s funny,” Simmons says.

“Sir?” says the cashier, unhappily.

What ensues is Grif and the cashier doing what looks like the Chinese back-alley debate over the price of a trashy souvenir, except it goes something like: 

Him: “What do you mean, Blood Gulch isn’t in the register?” 

Her: “I’m sorry, sir, do you think there’s another name for it?” 

Him: “No, it’s just called Blood Gulch--can I look it up by physical location?” 

Her: “Sure, what sector is it in?” 

Him: “It’s around here, these coordinates, physically in the middle of fuck-all.” 

Her: “I’m sorry, sir, there’s no communication offices near that area.” 

Him: “I don’t need it to go to an office, it just needs to go to someplace that can receive communication.” 

Her: “I’m sorry, sir, but there doesn’t seem to be anything in that area--”

And on and on and on. Simmons lurks over Grif’s shoulder and does, indeed, look like a kicked dog, until the cashier and Grif agree to send the letter to a station about seven  _ hundred _ miles off from where Blood Gulch is actually located, because it’s all they could really find. 

“Okay, sir,” says the cashier, and inhales very deeply. “Okay. You can drop a file via flashdrive, email, upload into this portal here. We support rich-text files, images except JPEG, and audio files.”

“Cool,” says Grif, and doesn’t move.

“You can deposit the file at the portal,” says the cashier again.

“Okay,” says Grif. 

He doesn’t move.

“Grif,” says Simmons.

“What,” says Grif.

“Do you, uh,” says Simmons. “ _ Have _ a thing to send?”

“Uh,” says Grif.

The cashier looks right at Grif in such a polite way that implies she wishes she could smite him from this earth in such a way that the murder would be untraceable to not only the police but, more importantly, her manager. 

“ _ Grif _ ,” Simmons mutters.

“Mmmmmmm,” says Grif.

“Holy fucking shit,” Simmons hisses, and pulls Grif right out of line, except the line is just Grif. “Grif, if you’re going to send a message to Blood Gulch, don’t you  _ need a fucking message _ ?”

Grif shrugs Simmons’s hand off. “Yeah, I know. I got it. Never mind. This was dumb.”

Simmons wants to say that no, it isn’t dumb--how can wanting to send a letter to your sister be  _ dumb _ ?--but he thinks that Grif would read more into it than Simmons really means. Is there a cool, casual, non-serious way to ask someone to stop talking shit about themselves and what they want, particularly when you yourself casually talk shit about this person and what they want? Is there a way to deviate from your normal modus operandi without it being like, a huge deal?

“Well, you could always just… write one now,” says Simmons. “I dunno, record a message. How hard is it to make a soundbite? Send an email?”

Darkly, without looking at Simmons, Grif says, “Making an email is easy. It’s what goes  _ in _ the email, which goes to my sister, who may or may not read it.”

Oh holy shit, Simmons is so not ready to have this conversation. 

“Sir, you’re welcome to take a moment to compose a message at the kiosk over there,” says the cashier, with a helpful gesture.

He glances at her. “Nah. Thanks. But never mind.”

And Grif walks right back out, and Simmons, like a kicked dog, doesn’t know what else to do but follow.

* * *

 

 

They wind up on a public bench outside the mail office, looking out at the open space outside. There’s linoleum tile. There’s a kiosk selling ritzy jewelry that looks like plastic. There’s three different restaurants and Simmons hates that so much socializing happens over food. There’s four different families flitting in and out of a nearby convenience store; a girlfriend and boyfriend are trying on different types of headphones. It reminds Simmons of an airport. 

“That was dumb,” Simmons says.

“Yeah, it was.”

“What, did you just wanna know if Blood Gulch got a post office or something? It doesn’t. It’s not going to. Pretty sure the UNSC wants that place wiped off the map forever.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“We just wasted that lady’s time.”

“She wasn’t doing anything anyway.”

“We just wasted that lady’s energy.”

“Okay, you got me there.”

Simmons’s leg bounces in place. Grif glances at it. Simmons stops bouncing his leg.

“I dunno, man,” Grif says. “I don’t know what got into me. It was just a dumb idea I had when I got up this morning, and I did it without thinking.”

“Wow, you think before you do things?” Simmons asks.

“You’re hilarious,” says Grif. “Seriously, dude. This whole trip has been really weird. Like, does time exist here? What are we even  _ doing _ ? There’s just a whole lotta nothing to do, but it isn’t even the fun kind of nothing to do. We can’t blow up anything or party in a tank.” And when Simmons sneaks a glance at him, Grif’s eyes flick downwards, half-closed. “This is like, the  _ regular _ kind of doing nothing. I didn’t even realize there was a kind of ‘doing nothing’ that was worse than the Blood Gulch kind of ‘doing nothing’.”

Around them, the  _ Hand of Merope _ bustles about, normal people doing their normal nothing. Grif on one half of the bench. Simmons on the other half of the bench. Two feet apart, Simmons’s hands in his spread lap, Grif slouched over the armrest, looking tired. They look like two strangers who’ve sat on the same bench by accident.

“Blood Gulch is alright,” says Simmons.

“Blood Gulch fucking sucks.”

“Yeah, it does. But it’s a fucking sucks that’s alright.”

Grif scowls and does not agree, like he should if he was going to complete his half of the joke. “No, it just fucking sucks. But Kai’s at Blood Gulch. So.”

“What, you wanted to give her a heads-up we’re coming?”

“No. I just wanted to talk to her,” says Grif, without inflection, and then: “Kai’s been always kind of unsteady.”

Aw, fuck, Simmons thinks, and holds absolutely still. He isn’t sure if he’s holding still because he doesn’t want Grif to startle and run away, or  _ himself _ to startle and run away, but either way, he holds still.

Grif taps his fingers along the wooden armrest. He looks, from what little Simmons can see from the corner of his eye, studiously and pointedly bored. “Sometimes I wanted to, I dunno... solve it. Solve her shit for her. Like, when she was going really off the rails, I was like, why can’t I just get in there and squeeze all the bad habits out of her life? I’ll just throw away all the booze in the cabinet and then everything will be fine. But then she’d intentionally go out of her way to ruin it all over again, because--I dunno, she didn’t want to stop, or couldn’t stop, or something. So obviously I couldn’t fix shit for her. She wouldn’t let me.”

Simmons looks away.

“So if I couldn’t  _ do _ anything to fix shit, I at least tried to  _ say _ something to fix it, but no matter what I said to her, nothing worked. You always hope that what you say will actually have an impact, like if you just, I dunno, sit down and have a quality conversation about it, then everything will work itself out, but it doesn’t work that way. So it’s like, what’s the point of saying anything if it’s not going to fix their shit? So I just had to sit there and watch her fuck up her life.”

Simmons looks down. Grif looks off to his left, away from Simmons. Simmons’s hands squeeze together, but he can’t figure out what to say. (No wonder Grif never sent a letter.)

“I need a fucking cigarette,” says Grif. 

“To complete your sad, moping, brooding image?” Simmons says.

“You know it.”

“This is a no-smoking zone. Use the e-cig I got you.”

“‘S not the same.”

“Well, it’s better than nothing.”

Grif doesn’t move for a second. Then he sighs, and shifts his weight on the seat, and digs out the e-cig from his jacket pocket. Slouches again. Pulls a few puffs to get it warmed up, then takes a drag of the e-cig Simmons got him with the lungs Simmons gave him, and blows it out.

Simmons supposes Grif’s absolutely right, that words don’t do anything. Hasn’t that been what he’s been saying all this time? There’s no point in honesty and no point in talking. They sit there on the bench, too far apart to be friends, too close to be an accident, and don’t talk at all. Nothing real comes from Grif’s moment of honesty--they’ve got nothing to show from this talk. No letters get sent. Kai is still neither dead nor alive. Grif’s words cool in the air and accomplish nothing. It only feels nice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey all!! im doing another project for a bit, so i'm putting this one on hold for the next two weeks. i'll see you guys on the tuesday two weeks from now (9/11/18). ty for understanding!!


	73. Courage Running

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You finally show up and the first thing you do is ruin everything."

On the fiftieth day, Grif still does not come back to the room and Simmons googles “how to recover from bulimia.”

The results are terrible.

Google gives him ads for treatment centers, all of which cost more than the UNSC will cover, and he wouldn’t touch that anyway, considering the stories he’s heard about treatment centers. Some of the websites are near evangelical, with a clear story of “I had a religious awakening and you could too!” Most of the sites seem to be written by people who’ve never gone through an eating disorder (“eating disorders are about control” “eating disorders are a maladaptive way of dealing with life”). Some of them are apparently written by people who had an eating disorder, but then came back around to say exactly the same thing as everyone who’d never had an eating disorder (“I had a control complex” “I had a destructive method of dealing with life”).

This seems particularly dumb to Simmons, who just wants to know how to stop doing a thing he doesn’t want to be doing. It’s not fucking voodoo magic, he thinks, disgruntled. He doesn’t need to know _why_ he’s doing it. He just wants to stop doing it.

One of the articles is written for a health and lifestyle magazine about crash diets you should never try, in which the author confesses to having dealt with anorexia in the past and that her editor was concerned that she shouldn’t write the article in case it would trigger a relapse. She’d consequently felt the need to prove that she wouldn’t relapse by eating more and unhealthier in front of him during the process of writing the article. She felt always on display, performing normal eating, her history branded on her forehead, needing to prove herself to a standard of health. Abnormal passing for normal, proving yourself to be worthy of the in-group while everyone stares at you and waits for you to relapse, like it’s an inevitability that you’ll rip off your “normal person” skin and reveal yourself to be the ugly deviant that everyone thinks you should be. This seems even more exhausting to Simmons than having to spend fifty days fucking over his epiglottis and tearing a hole in his esophagus via stomach acid.

Simmons types in several different wordings of the same search—”how to recover from an eating disorder,” “bulimia recovery,” “ednos recovery,” “osfed recovery,” dives through a few subreddits on diet and weight management, then a few on recovering from alcohol or other drug addictions, and then skims through the WikiHow for “how to eat healthily.”

Then he goes to the second page of his google search, and then stops, because he read somewhere that you have to be _really_ desperate to go to the second page of a google search.

You probably also have to be a little desperate to google how to fix your brain, too.

Do you have to be more or less desperate than reaching the second page of a google search in order to reach out for a real living person?

 

* * *

 

 

But there has to be an answer, doesn’t there? Something that will crack the code of why he keeps eating too much and throwing it up? Something that will protect him from being his terrible, incompetent self? Some magic bullet that will fix everything?

You can’t possibly mean to say that he has to fix it himself.

 

* * *

 

 

On a whim, Simmons goes to the Blood Gulch Corner and cleans the entire place.

“You finally show up and the first thing you do is ruin everything,” says Tucker.

“How is this _ruining everything_?” Simmons demands. He’s holding several shopping bags worth of trash, half of which is old food and the other half of which is disinfectant wipes he used to wipe everything down. “You guys were trashing that poor table! There’s other people who live on this hallway, you know!”

“It was homey!”

“That’s _disgusting_. Are you secretly Grif in disguise?”

“You don’t have to be Grif to appreciate the frat house aesthetic, Simmons,” says Tucker.

“Nobody appreciates the frat house aesthetic! Not even frat boys like the frat house aesthetic!”

“Like you’ve ever been in a fraternity.”

“Like you’ve ever been to college,” Simmons retorts.

“You finally show up and the second thing you do is be super duper racist,” says Tucker.

“Wh--wait, no, that’s not what I was—”

“I’m gonna call Wash and have him chase you away, I swear.”

“Wash won’t _chase me away_. I’m not scared of any Blue.”

“And that’s why you’ve been avoiding him despite rooming together,” says Tucker.

No, Simmons has been avoiding Wash’s snack stash, because Simmons, in a moment of foresight, figured that if left to his own devices, he’d probably steal them just to throw them up (don’t look at him like that, he doesn’t know how that works either), and then Wash would use his Freelancer Powers and use Detect Theft and then Simmons would probably get shot out back like Donut because he stole Wash’s freeze-dried blueberries, which for some reason sounds like an innuendo now that he puts it into words but he swears it isn’t.

“I’m not obligated to like Wash just because we’re rooming together,” says Simmons.

“Maybe you’re just too busy lusting after your ex-husband,” says Tucker.

The husband joke is familiar, but something about Tucker’s tone of voice strikes Simmons as not entirely teasing, and also not entirely friendly. Maybe it’s the body language. Crossed arms are a Wash or Simmons move, not a Tucker move; an exaggerated scowl would be typical from any Blue, particularly Church, but instead Tucker just looks like an inconvenienced teenager. Sourly, Simmons says, “Mind your own business, Blue.”

“Then stick to Red Base,” says Tucker. “Unless Sarge kicked you out of there because you wouldn’t stop pestering Grif.”

Simmons freezes. swallows. Thinks back to the funny look on Sarge’s face when Simmons came to find Grif hiding in Sarge’s room. The way Sarge wouldn’t even let him look inside. Didn’t want drama, Sarge had said, but on the other hand, since when had Sarge ever said anything directly.

“I hear Simon?” Caboose’s voice says, thankfully saving Simmons from having to actually think about himself and his failures towards literally everyone who has shown him marginal kindness in his entire life. Ah, wait, no, this is Caboose, who Simmons has ignored for fifty days straight. Hm, so, not quite saving him from having to think about his failures towards literally everyone who has shown him marginal kindness in his entire life, then.

“Don’t get your hope up,” says Tucker. “He’ll probably fuck off again for another two months.”

“It wasn’t two months! It was…” Simmons squints. “Eleven days short of two months!”

“Wow, dude. What an accomplishment,” says Tucker.

Hm, yeah, so all those times that Grif told Simmons to stop being a passive-aggressive fuck? He’s really feeling what Grif meant now. All of Simmons's fledgling curiosity that led him to google "eating disorder recovery" seems to evaporate on the spot.

“Simon?” asks Caboose. He looks, miraculously, still happy to see Simmons, the way Simmons figures that Caboose will still look happy to see Church and Carolina whenever it is that they show up, if they ever do.

“Hey, Caboose, uh," says Simmons.

Caboose's expression seems to fall just a fraction.

Simmons can't do this. "Um," says Simmons.

Tucker does not seem impressed. Almost vindictively pleased, even. Simmons can’t deal with this right now.

“I've got to go,” says Simmons quickly, and picks up his trash bags and hurries past the hall and towards the stairs.

“Okay,” says Caboose.

Simmons spins around and, still walking backwards, says, “I’ll be back, though!”

Caboose brightens. “Oh! Okay!”

Behind Caboose, Tucker is still scowling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heyyyyy welcome back ;)


	74. Criss Cross

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "D'you wanna talk about it?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The truth will set you free, but first it will piss you off." - Joe Klaas, "Twelve Steps to Happiness"

To everyone's shock, Simmons actually does come back. And actually does talk to Caboose. And actually does maintain a conversation with Caboose, entirely under Tucker's glare.

Until Caboose-- _Caboose_ , not Simmons--says, "I think I want to go somewhere without Tucker's stupid face," and Tucker throws up his hands and doesn't move, which means that  _Caboose_ gets his pissy look on  _his_ face and does the thing he does sometimes where he just stops talking and walks away. It's only when Tucker's pout deepends that Simmons realizes that Caboose had cut off the interaction with Tucker, not Simmons, and Simmons was supposed to follow him--bizarrely--for some reason that Simmons can't explain because it wasn't like  _Tucker_ was the one who ignored Caboose for a month straight. Fucking Blues. Simmons didn't know how Grif managed to speak Caboose-eese at all.

Caboose is sulking at the top of the staircase and even looks rather impatient. "What?" says Simmons, suspiciously.

Whatever it is Simmons did, it obviously wasn't the right thing, because Caboose wheels around and drags Simmons off into the main floor of the  _Hand of Merope_. But what's new, right? Simmons can't do  _anything_ right, ever, for anything, and he's getting really tired of beating himself up for it. Can he just accept he's a fucking failure at everything he's ever tried yet? Would that be the better alternative--to just lie down and give up and never try at anything ever again? When Caboose takes them through the main atrium with the long parade of food carts and restaurants, Simmons tells Caboose to go someplace else, and for a moment he's just entirely exhausted with himself and his absolute incapability of letting this go.

Why can't he just get better, huh? Why can't this just be over with? Why does this have to go on and on and on for so  _long_?

 

* * *

 

There's a long hallway full of windows out to the starry expanse of space, which, frankly, always makes Simmons rather nervous even if he knows these are stupid-thick mega-enforced space windows. He can't  _see_ the damn things, they're so clear; there's so much nothing outside and all the nothing can kill him. Logistically, if the windows were to blow out, it wouldn't matter where Simmons was on the spaceship; they'd all be dead within seconds; but it's one thing to know, realistically, that you could die because you're in a metal can hurtling through the blackness of non-existence and another thing entirely to see it, and especially to see it through a sheer window pane that doesn't even look like it's there.

Maybe it made the people who made the hallway nervous too, because it's an outrageously beautiful hallway with floor-to-ceiling windows looking out into the depths of space, and not a single chair, table, door, bench, or stool that would invite someone to stay. Short of just standing there like a toolbag, or squatting like a hobo.

So of course Caboose squats like the hobo, leaving Simmons to bring up the slack on the standing-like-a-toolbag department, which is fine, honestly, because he's been doing real great at that lately, and honestly Caboose has gotten such an itchy, fidgety, little-kid pissed-off-ness going on that he's probably less squatting and more sulking, except he's chosen to sulk right by the gigantor windows that scare the shit out of Simmons. 

"Did, um," says Simmons. "D'you wanna talk about it?"

Grif would smirk and resolutely refuse to even acknowledge a feeling was occurring.

Unfortunately, Grif is not here. 

"Tucker is being a stupid, whiny, sulky baby," says Caboose, like a whiny, sulky baby.

"Uh-huh. What about that is new," says Simmons.

"Because he is being a whiny baby because Church isn't here," Caboose blurts out, "or Washingtub is here, or you're not here, or Griff isn't where he should be! And he doesn't want to go back to Blood Gulch but he doesn't want to go anywhere else and he doesn't like it when things are not the way they used to be but he doesn't like it when they change, and then you come back like he wanted and now he's being a whiny baby about that too! And Church  _is_ here anyway, we just can't see him because he is with Carolina and  _Carolina_ isn't here, and I do not see why Tucker is making it harder for everyone when he actually gets what he wants, which was for Simon to come back and you're here but it just made him more angry and he is being very mean which makes me think that he doesn't want you to be here after all but he said that's not true but if that's true then he should shut up and be happy Simon is back! Or decide he hates you and Church and Washingtub! One or the other! Because he is not saying what he means, or if he is, it's a hard thing to mean, and either way I think he should make up his mind. So there!"

Oh, god, Simmons shouldn't have asked. "Uhhhhhhh," he says, because what the fuck is he supposed to do? Play therapist to a bunch of Blue Team bullshit? Absolutely not. Simmons doesn't even want to play therapist to his  _own_ bullshit. "Hmmmm."

Caboose's irritation seems to deepen. "Don't worry. It is not your fault."

Mmmmmm. Yeah, see, about that. It probably is.

Now, for the record: Not a sentence Simmons has ever wanted to have to think to himself, and he will probably willingly string himself up to die before he says those words aloud, and frankly, Simmons has found this whole process of moving past his own dumbshit self to be extremely distasteful. Really and truly, he does  _not_ recommend self-improvement. It's better to keep your head in the dirt and be an idiot for the rest of your life, because if you never pull your head out of the sand and your head out of your ass, then you never have to reckon with how fucking awful you really are. If he can just stay stupid and pretend being not-stupid never happened, that would be great, thanks; alternatively, if he could just pretend to have been always not-stupid and not have to deal with people being like  _hey Simmons why aren't you mercilessly trampling over my feelings all the time for no reason_ , that would also be great, thanks. Can Simmons unlearn something about himself? Can he keep being oblivious to his own shittiness for the rest of his life and hopefully never have to be held responsible for his flaws and the damages he's done to others? Yes? Yes? what a great idea? And he'll never have to come to terms with not only the pain of being known for who he is, but also the pain of knowing that he is, in reality, hugely transparently and already mortifyingly known by everyone around him. Absolutely logical and viable plan, yes?

Caboose looks at Simmons expectantly, waiting for Simmons to agree with him. Simmons intensely does not want to be here.

Therefore, Simmons sits on the floor with Caboose, criss-cross-apple-sauce, if only because Caboose invites absolute shamelessness and Simmons knows--he  _knows_ \--nobody else in their friend group, maybe nobody else in the  _world_ , will ever be as accepting as Caboose, and if Simmons can't sit here and fucking talk to Caboose, he certainly will never be able to talk to someone like Grif. Maybe this is why Caboose always seems like he  _must_ be smarter than he looks. Nobody else could be this stupid, this trusting, this nonjudgmental, this  _kind_ , could they? Caboose can't possibly  _mean_ what he says, can he? How is this man not dead or swindled out of everything he owns?

Therefore, Simmons will now say something apologetic, or at least taking responsibility for having shafted his entire social circle for two months, or at the  _very least_ something kind.

What comes out is: 

"I don't give a fuck if Tucker doesn't like me," says Simmons.

Wait. Hm. That's not what he meant. Simmons tries again:

"I've talked to him, what, twice in my whole life? He can do whatever he wants. It doesn't matter!"

Oh god why is this happening.

"I did some shit he doesn't like. So what? What he does with that is his business," says Simmons angrily. "What I do is up to me, isn't it? He can take it or leave it. And if I never talk to him again, then that's just how it is! And if I get miraculously better and start talking to everyone again, then that's just how it is! If he doesn't want to take me back, that's--that's good! Good for him! He can do that if he wants! And we'll just go our separate ways and he can be bitter and not talk to me and I'll do--whatever it is I do." 

Oh god why are words not working.

"He can hold all the grudges he wants. That's  _his_ business.  _My_ business is getting better. What the fuck does it matter! I don't even like Tucker! Blues are assholes anyway! Fuck him! I'm just going to do this all by myself, and he can be petty and upset all by his self, and it'll be a great time of nobody talking to each other!"

"Ah, no, I don't think so," says Caboose.

Unfortunately, Simmons might disagree with himself, but the instant anyone else disagrees with him, Simmons is contractually obligated to get pissed. "What do you mean, you don't  _think so_?"

Caboose frowns. "If Church disappeared for a long time without saying goodbye, and came back without at least explaining, I'd probably kill him again."

"What--like, on accident?"

"On purpose."

Simmons scrunches up his face.

Oh god, he thinks. If even _Caboose_ can hold a grudge against someone he loves--Caboose, who doesn't even understand the concept in words--that's like saying there's no easy answers. No, it's like saying there aren't any answers at all. There  _is_ no solution. You just have to figure it out and fuck it up and hope for the best.

God, that's  _awful_. What the fuck. That's bullshit. This is terrible service. Where is life's manager. Simmons demands to speak with them.

"Maybe I wouldn't actually kill him," says Caboose, apparently seeing Simmons's horrified face. "Maybe I would just heavily maim him. Also, I think Griff is too lazy to maim you, if that is what you are worried about!"

"We weren't talking about Grif," says Simmons grumpily. "Why does everyone think that I revolve around Grif all the time for every second of the day."

"I am sure that everything with Griff will be fine," says Caboose, as if Simmons hadn't spoken. 

"What? Why? Did he talk to you? Did he say something? Do you know something? What did I miss? What did he say to you? Tell me everything word for word--"

"Ah, no, he didn't say anything," says Caboose serenely. "I just figured, what else does Simmons have to lose?"

Simmons stiffens.

"So it will work out well no matter what," says Caboose.

Simmons glances away, out at the thick windows, cold with the lacking of space. It isn't fair that what Caboose says is actually reassuring.


	75. Serious Jokes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “God knows why he did such an out-of-character thing in the first place."

On the seventieth day to Chorus, Grif decides to “get some things off his chest,” except it happens almost entirely by accident because nobody in their social circle ever, apparently, got anything off their chests, and just slowly let the weight of their own problems flatten them into the dirt. But that’s just semantics. Same difference. It still happened even if it happened by accident.

“Can we go literally _anywhere else_ but Blood Gulch?” Grif says under his breath at the Blood Gulch Corner while Simmons is walking by, and Sarge, who’d been lurking at the Corner himself, goes _off_ about how Grif has “always been a lazy good-for-nothing who doesn’t wanna do the bloody sweat-n-tears work!” and he’s been “a negative-nancy from day numero uno!” and “shut up Grif someone has to say ‘negative nancy’ now that Donut’s gone!”

“You don’t have to make such a big deal out of it,” says Grif sourly. “Can’t a guy get some things off his chest? Guys, we all know Blood Gulch was a shithole. _Is_ a shithole, if we go back there. Like, I’m pretty sure we all hated that place—”

“I neither confirm nor deny these allegations,” Sarge declares.

“Fucking christ,” says Grif. “Sarge, there was _nothing there_. It was impossible to like the place.”

“Because you don’t know how to put in the work to sustain a long-term relationship!”

“Shut up! According to you, Simmons and I were dating for a whole month! That’s--long-ish! It’s not short! It’s--uhh--there was a length of time that wasn’t nonexistent!”

“Excuses! Justifications! I know the games you play to excuse your own laziness and fear of commitment!”

“ _I don’t have a fear of commitment,_ ” Grif snaps. Simmons abruptly wishes he was not standing here without Grif’s knowledge, because it’s about to get really weird when Grif realizes he’s there. “I’m just saying, there was fucking nothing at Blood Gulch. You can’t like a place with nothing in it!”

“Well, uh,” says Simmons, before he can think. Both Sarge and Grif’s heads snap around to look at him. “He’s. Kinda… right…?”

Both Sarge and Grif’s faces turn incredulous.

“Sarge, there really wasn’t anything there,” says Simmons. “I’m pretty sure we all spent every second of our post there wishing we were somewhere else. Like--look--if we went back in time, and asked our past selves—”

“Private, what the bonkers heck are you talking about,” says Sarge.

“No, no, hear me out. If we went back in time, and then back in time _again_ to accomodate for the time we were all blown up and shot hundreds of years into the future, and talked to our past selves, and said hey we got out of Blood Gulch what do you want us to do, our past selves would most definitely say, ‘You’re all absolute idiots for coming back here, what are you doing, go literally anywhere else.’”

“Since when have I ever respected the wishes of my past self,” says Sarge. “That seems like a thing that people do when they’re being nice to themselves! You wouldn’t catch me dead doing a self-care! Ride or die! Sacrifice everything for the Red Army!”

“I’m gonna tell Wash you’re back on that Red Army simtrooper bullshit,” says Grif.

“You wouldn’t dare,” says Sarge. “That man doesn’t know how to respect a man’s need to cling to delusions. That’s antithetical to half the things that keep you sane.”

“Yeah, fine, I wouldn’t,” says Grif.

Sarge rounds back to Simmons: “Look here, Private. I think that due to your incessant need to self-destruct in the privacy of your own home--which is entirety understandable and a man’s right, of course; just give us a holler when we should drag your body to the casket--in any event, I think you may have forgotten how Red Team is supposed to go! Y’see—” Sarge points at Grif, and says, very slowly and clearly at Simmons: “ _This one_ is the one you make fun of. _This_ one,” pointing at himself, “is the one you validate the superiority of in order to maintain my failing self-esteem and crushing sense of nihilism in the twilight years of my life.”

“What?” says Simmons.

“What?” says Grif.

“And Lopez, if he were around,” says Sarge, “is the one you’re embarrassingly racist towards, so we can laugh behind your back for your own white fragility. But Lopez isn’t here, unfortunately.”

“I’ve been picking up the slack with Tucker,” says Simmons.

“Taking initiative, I see! How tragic that you’re taking initiative for possibly your worst character trait.”

Grif makes a doubtful noise. “Oh, I dunno, Sarge. Simmons has so many terrible character traits to choose from.”

“Hey!” says Simmons.

“I said _possibly_!” Sarge interrupts. “Don’t correct me, Private Grif, I’m well aware of the laundry list of Simmons’s failures as a man and husband. And last but not least, Donut is supposed to…”

Sarge stops.

Everyone looks at him.

Sarge grunts.

“Be the manifestation of all of our latent fears of homosexuality, sir?” Simmons suggests helpfully.”

“Yes, well noted, Private Simmons.”

“Thank you, sir!”

“But no brownie points for stating the blatantly obvious,” Sarge warns.

“I’m pretty sure we _need_ someone to state the blatantly obvious,” says Grif.

“We might need someone, but that doesn’t mean I have to like them!” Sarge says, and points at Grif: “Case in point! You come into my home and insult Blood Gulch--insult my mother while you’re at it, why don’t you?!”

“Oh, should I—”

“I will kill you where you stand, Private Grif.”

“Can Simmons do it?” Grif asks.

“I only agreed we shouldn’t go back to Blood Gulch,” says Simmons.

“God knows why he did such an out-of-character thing in the first place,” says Sarge.

“I backed it up because ‘things get better’ is the theory of how things work!” says Simmons irritably. “And if Blood Gulch was shitty, we shouldn’t go back! So things can get better!”

“‘Things get better’ is just that shitty slogan from those gay-acceptance videos from like five hundred years ago,” says Grif sourly.

“Yeah, well, I,” says Simmons, and feels panic begin to creep in, so he just blurts it out before he can think: “I used to watch them a lot, and it’s a catchy slogan. So sue me.”

And then Simmons stands there, mortified, feeling like he’s offered Grif his own heart on a plate, and contemplates maybe throwing himself out the window so he can pretend that whatever Grif’s about to say next didn’t happen. Even Grif looks thrown. Simmons can’t even look at Sarge. This isn’t part of the script. Simmons wasn’t supposed to say that.

“You _would_ pick the ones from five hundred years ago,” says Grif, at length.

“It’s catchy,” Simmons says weakly.

“Guess so. Vague as fuck, though.”

The vaguer a promise is, the more truthful it can be. Nothing about the idea promises that Simmons will stop being mortified by moments where he admits to having watched LGBT-acceptance videos when he was young, or that Sarge’s sudden silence won’t make Simmons squirm as if he’s under a microscope. It doesn’t promise when or how; it doesn’t even promise what the end will look like; it doesn’t even promise an end. Just that things, vague things, anything, will get ‘better’. How? Why? By whom? Unclear. And possibly the idea that ‘things get better’ promises that it’ll just happen naturally, by magic, by no real effort on your part; and that’s just patently untrue. But you’ve got to believe something that’s a little untrue before you, with your own two hands, can make it a little less untrue, right? In theory, at least.

“It is catchy,” says Grif, after another silence.

“This slogan is anti-Blood Gulch propaganda,” Sarge mutters.

“You’re right,” says Grif. “‘Leave Blood Gulch’ is the real gay agenda.”

“I’ve changed my mind and I love Blood Gulch,” says Simmons.

Grif sputters. “I--wh--don’t chicken out on me! You hate that hellhole too!”

“I’m joking!” says Simmons hastily. “I’m joking.”

“Your idea of a joke looks an awful lot like just you being yourself,” says Grif suspiciously.

Yeah. Simmons knows.


	76. Recovery Ave

On the seventy-second day to Chorus, Simmons gives up on recovery.

This looks like him staying holed up in his room for a few hours, realize that Wash had thrown away an entire loaf of bread, immediately take it to the sink to soak and make inedible (so he doesn't have to rely on willpower to not eat it, you see--old habits, and all that)--stop--reconsider--promptly overthink what he's doing (while a small voice in the back of his head remarks that inspecting everyone else's leftover food is not Normal People Behavior, and a snider voice notes that digging through the trash for food is a thing Hungry People do), put the bread back in the trash without soaking, think about it, try to distract himself, leave the room altogether, remind himself that bread always comes up in dense chunks that are hell on your throat (like golf balls swallowed in reverse), find Sarge, talk to Sarge, keep thinking about the bread, leave Sarge, take a walk, think about the bread, think about alternatively exercise-purging it if he shouldn't purge-purge it, listen to the sharp funny staccato of his own cyborg heart, is (very briefly and very dully) pissed off his parents for their gentically-inheritable alcoholism and workaholism, get pissed off at the universe for the injustice of him having to deal with something that apparently  _nobody else suffers from_ , wonder why it is that nobody else seems to have this problem, everyone else eats like it's no big deal, nobody else has to make some sort of deal with the devil to get through a sandwich without either eating nothing or throwing it up and more than unfair it's really just oppressingly cold, cold like space, that he has never seen this problem reflected in anyone else around him; get tired of his own anger, go back to his room, steal the bread, and eat all of it.

He checks the calorie count per slice. (High.) Checks the carbs. (Yikes.) Does the math. Adjusts for nutrition facts report twenty-percent margin of error, multiplied by slice, compared to his theoretical TDEE (also large margin of error for the cyborg bits and also the damage he's doing to his thyroid). The numbers tell him he's fucked up. He's a fuck-up by statistical, quantifiable measures. He's done it wrong and he is wrong and probably he's going to keep being wrong, if his track record of this bullshit over the last decade-plus of his life has any statistical weight, until everyone can see how wrong he is, meaning his mistakes and deficiencies and all the things about himself that he can't help and tried for so long to twist, to bend, to break out of himself, and still, still, despite everything, he's still himself.

Well. 

In any case, he's supposed to be throwing up all this bread now, so he can fix what's wrong with him. But bread never comes up easy, even if he  _had_ drank water with it. And gag reflexes don't get stronger the more you purge; they get weaker and less helpful. And his throat is raw, and his cheeks are swollen, and his chest hurts, insistently, sharply. So in the end, he just closes the door to his and Wash's room and lurks in his own bed like a sulky teenager afraid of what his father will say when he goes outside, curls up and waits for the jitters from the carbs to start, and, tired and beaten, concludes that he'll just have to forgive himself for his failures.


	77. Oldest Habits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe people are just ashamed of their own consequences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “This book is neither a tabloid tale of mysterious disease nor a testimony to a miracle cure. It’s simply the story of one woman’s travels to a darker side of reality, and her decision to make her way back. On her own terms.” -Marya Hornbacher, _Wasted: A Memoir of Anorexia and Bulimia_

If Simmons were a little more aware of what he was doing, he’d probably panic and choke. But for something like this, there’s no narrative for him to compare himself to, and therefore no minimum standard he felt under pressure to achieve; he has never really read an account that covers the process of getting back on your feet after everything’s s slipped off the rails and crashed into the dirt. First off, they don’t truly exist in eating disorder literature, films, TV shows, documentaries. The usual way it goes is that the girl gets sick, sick, sicker; a turning point is reached; and either she checks herself into an eating disorder recovery ward or, worse, she’s shown beginning to eat again as if there were no steps between point A and point Z. They don’t show picking up the pieces of the family relations she’s ruined, or the aftermath of the terrible things she’s said, or the learning to live with the wreck of herself. Whether or not she disappears into the mystery of a recovery ward or she seems spontaneously able to “eat like a normal person” (whatever that means), it’s a hard fade to black. You get sick, and then you get unsick, and everyone spends the entire film talking about the intricacies of how you got sick and forget to explain how knowing how you got sick is supposed to help you get unsick. Maybe people think you’re supposed to come out of hell the way you come in, as if going  _ through _ hell—in one way, out another—is not a commonly-used phrase of the English language.

Maybe people are just ashamed of their own consequences. Watching a little girl burn in the stratosphere is beautiful. It’s the clean-up that people try to hide.

Second off, it’s not like Simmons would have ever watched or read such things. Most of them are about girls, anyway, or gay boys, and all of them solidly in their teens or young twenties, as if eating disorders evaporated when you got a diploma from an educational institute, instead of what was more likely to happen, which is that school-funded mental health counselling was what evaporated. 

Simmons, without knowing so, is in uncharted territory: a complete black-out, a total vacuum: a thirty-year-old man in the darkness of space, with no guidemap and no criteria to fail and no earthly clue of what he’s supposed to be doing. Everything he’s ever read on recovery is a different set of advice: Maudsley, psychotherapy, CBT, veganism, Atkins, Christianity, a hundred and one born-again beautiful narrations. And here he is, half-disowned by his parents by radio silence he doesn’t want to break, in the smoking car crash of a military career he never had because he couldn’t get his head out of the toilet long enough to pass his own college exams and desperate for someone, something, to straitjacket him back to sanity, beat him back into rationality. What theory is supposed to prepare him for the practicalities, the hard physical lines of his daily life, the having to look at Tucker’s face and see nothing of forgiveness? As if everyone of those theories he hasn’t already gone to on his hands and knees, begging to be saved from being himself if only he does everything right?

The sorry fact of it is that in the dead zone of no map, no story, no reflection, no body to tell him what he’s  _ supposed to do _ , he’s left to use only himself and proceed with the unenviable task of easing himself back into the one thing he actually knows he wants for himself instead of wanting it because everyone told him was supposed to want it. Being a famous general, a scholar, rich, lauded, handsome and loved, preferably zit-free and popular (and also straight and beloved by girls for no discernible reason)—maybe if he woke up tomorrow and had all those things, he’d take it in a heartbeat and never look back. But since he’s so damn bad at having what he’s supposed to want to have, he’ll just have to settle for what he actually wants to have.

 

* * *

“Hey,” says Grif. 

“Hey,” says Simmons.

“What’re you doing out here,” says Grif.

Simmons is sitting at the Blood Gulch Corner with a tablet and a text-adventure he never finished coding, because he knows at one point in his life he actually enjoyed coding these things and their terrible plotlines. He’s not entirely sure he’s still going to enjoy doing the things he did before, but it’s worth a shot, at the very least. He isn’t enjoying it. He’s just sitting here trying to look recognizably like a Richard Simmons that the Reds and Blues know, and not whatever hideous thing has crawled out of him over the last eighty days.

“Why, am I not allowed to sit here?” Simmons asks.

“Just sitting?” Grif says suspiciously.

“It’s not like there’s drills to run or a base to guard.”

“Yeah,” says Grif, and collapses into the chair one over from Simmons. Not next to him. Simmons is trying not to read into that. “Thank god for that. Nothing to do but eat and sleep.”

“That’s your idea of heaven.”

“It’s been great,” says Grif tonelessly.

There’s a silence.

“How’s Sarge?” Simmons asks.

“He’s Sarge. Old. Crazy. Annoying.”

There’s another silence.

“How’s Wash,” Grif says.

“Dramatic.” Simmons wracks his brain for something else to say, just to keep the conversation going, but only comes up with: “Uh, kind of dumb.”

“Don’t think we would have taken him if he wasn’t kind of dumb. It’s like, our only requirement to hang out with us.”

“I think we also have to be losers,” says Simmons.

Grif gives him a funny look. That wasn’t a very Simmons-like thing for him to say. “That’s true,” says Grif. 

Another silence.

“Cool,” says Grif.

Silence.

“This is kind of boring,” says Simmons. 

“Please tell me you didn’t just notice that.”

Simmons gives him a startled look. “I—what—I mean, of course… not? Yes, of course I spent the last eighty days bored out of my mind like the rest of you guys and totally was on the same page as everyone else…?”

Grif rolls his eyes, but doesn’t comment on it, like it’s just par for the course for Simmons to avoid talking about the elephant in the room in the worst possible way, and there’s nothing left in Grif but to just be tired of it. “Whatever. Tucker and I played Chrono Trigger up at the rec room until our brains melted out our ears, and that was basically the last thing left to do on this fucking ship. Another hundred and twenty days to go until we hit Blood Gulch, and then I guess we can be fucking bored for the rest of our lives.”

“This sucks,” says Simmons.

“God, tell me about it.”

Simmons starts thinking about Rat’s Nest, about Blood Gulch, thinking about thinking that—what’s the phrase—purging sucks but sucks a little bit less than being wherever he was, and if he was wrecking his esophagus and heart and life expectancy, well, it’s not like it was much of a life if he was just going to spend it guarding a base that didn’t matter from an army that didn’t exist. At least back at Blood Gulch, he did his best to pretend there was a point to guarding Red Base. At least back at Blood Gulch, the Blues did their best to give him a point. 

Yeah, fuck that. “Are you serious? That’s stupid. Let’s do something.”

“You think the police are out there preventing us from doing things? Jesus, Simmons, we’d do something if there was anything  _ to _ do.”

Grif slouches further into his chair, an odd, glassy-eyed look on his face, like he’s watching life slide in front of his eyes through a TV screen, and Simmons is stuck in the peculiar situation of realizing that this is when Grif is supposed to say something dumb or weirdly profound to generate something to do, but Grif is the one being This Way. It’s like trying to put out a fire, only to realize the fire extinguisher is on fire. 

No, think, Simmons. Actually, that’s probably not what he needs to do; Simmons doesn’t need to think; Simmons needs to figure out what Grif would think and then say if Grif  _ weren’t  _ being This Way.

“Wwwwwwwhat,” says Simmons, “would you do if you  _ did _ have something to do?”

Grif’s eyes flick towards him. Simmons never realized until just then how small his eyes really are until they seem flat and lifeless in their sockets. “Is this a philosophy question?”

“No, like, if you could do anything right now—no limits—any choice of anything you could do—what would you be doing?”

“Not being here.”

“Yeah, but where?”

“Not Blood Gulch.”

“This is embarrassing,” says Simmons. “I could tell you a bunch of mundane things I’d rather be doing right now, and you can’t even come up with  _ one _ . Like, I’d rather be, uh, watching a movie.”

“Not  _ Reservoir Dogs _ ,” Grif says quickly. “That’s not specific, either.”

“Fine! I’d rather be watching, uh, um,  _ Avatar _ .”

Grif sits bolt upright. “The James Cameron one? Are you fucking  _ joking _ ?”

“I panicked! You put me on the spot!” Simmons hesitates, then adds: “But I’d actually rather be watching a shitty movie than being here.”

“Shittiest movies you could stand to watch rather than being here. Go,” says Grif.

“Uhhh,  _ Top Gun. Wicker Man. Con Air. National Treasure. National Treasure II _ —”

“Stop giving me the entirety of Nic Cage’s career! That’s cheating!”

“Nic Cage is a perfectly commendable level of terrible movie that’s both lukewarm enough to be watchable! I’m being efficient! You couldn’t do better—”

“ _ Sharknado _ ,” says Grif promptly.

“ _ Sharknado _ is—”

“The entire series,” Grif interrupts.

“No,” Simmons breathes.

“Oh, yes, Simmons,” says Grif.  _ “All sixty-three _ of them.”

“That’s a lie,” Simmons says, trembling. “You wouldn’t  _ dare _ rather be watching the entirety of the  _ Sharknado _ series than be here. That’s  _ seven days _ of footage—”

Grif leans forward. “Maybe not by  _ myself _ . But nowhere in the rules did we say that I couldn’t bring help. If I make you and all the Reds and Blues suffer through the entirety of _ Sharknado _ with me, you think I wouldn’t fucking hesitate to throw you under the bus for my own entertainment?”

“You sick son of a bitch,” Simmons whispers. 

“Don’t hate the player, Simmons. Hate the game.”

“You’re the one who made the game!” Simmons snaps, kicking him in the leg, and Grif snickers for just a moment.

And then he hesitates, and seems to go far away again.

When Grif had been leaving Valhalla for Caboose’s roadtrip, there’d been this weird moment that Simmons tries not to put a label on, and a weird look on Grif’s face that Simmons tries not to put into word, so he’s left with only the funny lurch in Simmons’s gut when he’d seen Grif’s face. 

And Grif has the same sort of look on his face now, only now it’s disappointed. Simmons doesn’t know what would be worse: if it was Grif disappointed with Simmons, or Grif disappointed with himself. 


End file.
